Sleepy Hollow: Spilt Milk
by Donnamour1969
Summary: NOW COMPLETE. When Abbie's insomnia gets the better of her, she and Crane are forced through a comedy of errors to confront new-found feelings. Post episodes, then slightly AU. Spoilers, 3x10 and 3x11. Romance, Humor. Rated T/M for adult situations.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello! This is my first story for this fandom, though you may know me from "The Mentalist" or "Moonlight," among others. I have loved "Sleepy Hollow" from the beginning, but it has only been the last two episodes, where I feel we are moving closer to a romantic relationship between Crane and Abbie, that I have felt inspired to write for them. Here is a tag of sorts for "Incident at Stone Manor" and "Kindred Spirits." I think others have had similar ideas, but hopefully mine is different enough to still be enjoyable.**

 **Spilt Milk**

Ichabod Crane had no idea what had awakened him; he only knew that one moment he was riding in the snow on a cold winter's day in 1777, and the next he heard Abbie's soft cursing coming from the kitchen of their shared home. He sat straight up in bed, his heart pounding in startle, somewhat disoriented. Crane's dreams were usually very vivid, especially when they included memories from his past, and it would sometimes take him hours after waking to readjust to the atmosphere of the twenty-first century.

At the sound of a particular vulgar word he'd never heard emanating from his housemate's lovely lips, Crane had no trouble remembering the present, and he reached for the dressing gown at the end of his bed.

"Lieutenant," he whispered urgently into the darkness.

He tied the sash of the robe as he walked, cringing as his bare feet hit the ice-cold wooden floor. He flinched at the brightness of the rest of the house; Abbie had been given to turning on every light if she woke in the night.

When he arrived at the kitchen and saw what had been the cause of the commotion, his hand came up to cover his laughter. Abbie Mills squatted amidst a pool of milk, shards of a shattered bowl, and what appeared to be the soggy remnants of her favorite cereal. Her typical nightwear—sleep pants, t-shirt and socks—were liberally spattered or alternatively soaked with milk.

When she sensed his presence and looked up from the catastrophe surrounding her, Crane removed his hand from his mouth, his expression neutral, though his blue eyes still sparkled with humor.

"I believe the expression is that one should not _cry_ over spilt milk—therefore, it would follow that _cursing_ over the wasted substance is of even greater futility."

She frowned up at him, too annoyed with the whole situation to see the humor in it, at least not yet. "Would _one_ kindly shut up and get me the mop… _please_."

"Certainly," he said despite her sarcasm, but he grinned as he retrieved the item from the utility closet in the hall. He approached the scene with trepidation, given his bare feet and the broken bowl, and he reached one arm out to tentatively mop up the milk at the very edge of the spill.

"Oh, give me that," she said impatiently, having succeeded in picking up the largest pieces of the broken china and setting them in the trash under the sink.

Crane watched as she efficiently began mopping up milk and cereal, depositing the whole mess in the sink. In the meantime, Crane had retrieved his slippers from his bedroom and now gallantly walked into the fray to pick up the distressed damsel and deposit her in a chair at the dining table. She protested heartily, but he would hear nothing of it, removing her wet socks and tossing them handily into the sink. He retrieved a clean dishtowel from a drawer, but she drew the line at letting him dry her bare feet.

Silence ensued as Abbie finished the job and absently folded the towel before laying it on the table. He stood by, watching her, suddenly taking note of the intimacy of the early morning hour and the darkness outside the windows. He swallowed awkwardly, moving a step away.

"Thanks," she replied at last, oblivious to his mood. "Sorry if I woke you."

His expression grew serious. "You still have not acclimated to the lack of daylight?"

"No."

Nearly a year in the catacombs, with never-ending sunlight, had severely damaged her circadian rhythm. That Crane was concerned was an understatement, for he had heard tell of those who actually went mad for want of sleep. No sense frightening her with that tidbit, however.

"On the bright side," he ventured with a smile, "your appetite has been restored."

She met his eyes, smiling wistfully. "There is that."

"Although," he couldn't resist continuing, "it would be much better were you to choose a healthier form of sustenance."

He picked up the cereal box from the counter, grimacing at the picture of a sea captain in his bright blue uniform.

"It's my only vice," she said defensively. "I deserve at least one."

"That you do," he readily agreed. Aside from her love of sugary cereal, she seemed very near perfect to Crane.

After retrieving a new bowl from a cabinet, he shook the cereal box, intending to pour her another helping. "Well, sadly, you are out of the fine captain's crunchy fare, though I must say this so-called _cap'n_ is a fraud."

She raised her eyebrows, mentally preparing herself for the litany of analysis directly from The Age of Enlightenment.

"Oh?"

"Yes." He moved toward her again, his momentary awkwardness forgotten as he warmed to his topic. "See here the stripes upon said captain's jacket sleeves—how many do you count, Lieutenant?"

"Three," she said, the shared revelation dawning.

"Quite. Your cherished _captain_ has actually only attained the the rank of Naval _commander_ , not in fact, that of a _captain_ as falsely advertised on this very box." He thumped the cardboard for dramatic emphasis.

"Huh," she said in wonder, taking the box from his hands. "I never noticed that before."

"And how do you explain the Napoleonic influence of his cap, mademoiselle?" Crane affected an exaggerated French accent "Is he in fact, _French_? Have the Americans stooped so low as to allow this-this— _pirate_ to peddle their _céréales en sucre_ to an uninformed public? Oh, the outrage!"

By then Abbie was grinning at Crane's antics, effectively lifting the melancholy pall that had settled about her since her return.

"There's Cocoa Puffs in the pantry," she said.

"Well, there's a step up, although, I must say, the creature pictured upon that box resembles a cuckoo bird not at all…"

Abbie's smile faded as she waited for Crane's return, hating the fact that she had brought Crane once more unwittingly into her problems. Her clumsiness with the bowl was only part of it.

 _But we are a team; your problems are mine,_ he would surely say if she mentioned it, falling once more into the habit of imagining his replies. She was still doing it, even though it had been a week since she'd escaped the catacombs, and he was right there, blessedly ready to answer her in person.

But she couldn't tell him how the darkness now terrified her, despite how much she had longed for it for months. She couldn't tell him that, while her body craved food once more, now everything tasted like the cardboard boxes that it came in. She forced herself to eat things that were extremely sweet or eye-wateringly spicy, in hopes that she might awaken her taste buds along with her flagging spirits. She was depressed, and she couldn't seem to lift herself out of it.

"Lieutenant," Crane called suddenly, his voice somewhat muffled from the inside of the small closet off the kitchen. "I see no Cocoa Puffs, nor are there Pebbles of Fruit or that deplorable Irish-trickster inspired confection, which, I might add, is also wholly inaccurate in its depiction. Leprechauns were in fact known to deceive children, not to induce them to eat their breakfast, though, come to think of it, the choice of such a character might be a stroke of genius—"

"Have you moved things around on the shelves, Crane?" she interrupted. "You know, sometimes you have to look for what's behind the obvious; I would think a man who liked to dig as deeply into things as you do would have no problem looking behind a few boxes and cans…"

"While your advice is appreciated," he said wryly, ignoring the veiled insult, "I assure you, you will find neither hide nor hair of your beloved Cocoa Pops upon these shelves."

With a long-suffering sigh, Abbie padded to the pantry. She had a pretty good idea where the cereal was, but knew that it would take less time if she located it herself. She found him hunched over, peering at a lower shelf. He was looking with the light off, so it was no wonder he couldn't find anything. She flipped on the switch, but nothing happened.

"Oh, the bulb has expired," he said helpfully, still squinting into the darkness in search of her snack. The door was propped open and offered some light from the kitchen, but Crane's tall frame effectively filled the room and she would need to step inside to join the quest.

As she moved to stand beside him, she stubbed her toe on the metal doorstop, effectively dislodging the heavy door. Cursing for the second time that evening, she hopped on one foot, losing her balance and falling into Crane, who fell against the shelves, sending boxed goods, paper towels and a package of toilet paper raining down upon them. Both of them were too distracted to mind the door, and it swung closed with a heavy bang.

They were locked inside—the prevention of which was the other reason the door remained propped open. Since the old key had recently broken in the lock, it had stayed locked from the outside, but so far they had avoided being locked inside. Well, until now.

"Bloody hell," swore Crane, as they stood in the darkness.

His uncharacteristic profanity made Abbie laugh a little hysterically.

"Lieutenant," he said, reaching out to her, instantly recognizing her distress. "Are you hurt?"

She was so frightened she couldn't speak.

"Lieutenant," he said again, and she felt his warm hands suddenly roaming her body in search of injury. She shivered involuntarily.

"You're trembling," he whispered in surprise.

And like the other half that he had become to her, he realized what was wrong.

"The darkness," he said.

He felt her nod. Without thinking more, he gathered her into his arms.

"I'm here," he said into her soft hair. He moved their embracing bodies so she was facing the door. "Look, there is light coming from beneath the door. Keep your eyes upon it, and I will figure a way out of here."

But they both knew from previous experience that there was no way out, that the door was too heavy to break down, that there was nothing in this pantry that could be used to knock off the doorknob. They had both meant to replace it, but had put it off; there were always much more important things to do. Things like saving the world, or at least the residents of Sleepy Hollow. No, they realized, they were stuck until someone came over and found them, for neither of them had carried their cell phones with them in their pajamas.

Despite that, Crane felt valiantly around the small enclosure in search of some tool he could use, if only to comfort his floundering friend. Abbie stared at the thin strip of light at their feet, Crane's movements within the tight space threatening to unhinge her further. She much preferred the comfort of his arms around her. Warmth suffused her cheeks at the thought, and she found she was suddenly calmer.

"Stop," she said into the darkness. "It's no use. We may as well get comfortable. Jenny was coming by to go running with me at seven, so we only have a few hours to wait."

 _She speaks,_ he thought thankfully. He wasn't quite used to an hysterical Agent Mills, though he'd certainly seen her emotional and frightened before. Usually, it was because something was coming after them, however.

He reached for her hand and she let him hold it. Much like the day a week before, when she had escaped from the hell of the catacombs and called him back from his astrally-projected purgatory, he held her cold hand between his. The longing he felt revisited him, knocking him hard in the chest as it had that day, when he knew without a doubt he would have kissed her, had Miss Jenny and Master Corbin not been present. God knew he adored her with all his heart, a feeling he had very nearly put into words before making a lame joke about chess.

He should have kissed her anyway, and damn the consequences, he thought, not for the first time in the past week. He should have at the very least pulled her into his arms and let her feel all the relief and gratitude he felt that she was back safely, that they were together again. In those weeks after she had disappeared, he had nearly gone mad with worry and grief. He'd become obsessed with finding her, to the point that he'd ruined his chances with Zoe, shamefully neglecting her. But not even the regard of that good woman could have induced him to stop searching for Abbie Mills: his fellow witness. His other half.

He held her hand once more, pleased she had stopped shaking and that her hand had warmed considerably.

"Deep breaths," he said softly, still sensing her agitation. For once, she took his advice without argument. It made him smile.

"Your suggestion to get comfortable was sound," he told her. "Let's find those paper towels, and you may have the uh—the _other_ paper product as a cushion."

He could almost feel her smirk at his embarrassment. "Good idea."

They felt around the floor for the displaced items, but despite her newfound calm, Abbie didn't let go of his hand, which was perfectly all right with Crane. The pantry was perhaps seven feet long, five feet wide, which, with the shelves, left a mere two feet of width for them to sit upon the floor. By unspoken agreement they arranged the paper products as pillows, bumping into each other awkwardly in the tight space. Crane chivalrously removed his dressing gown-under which he wore a respectable set of pajamas-throwing it over them as a blanket as they lay down together.

They soon realized that in such close quarters, they could either face each other, awkwardly spoon, or he could enclose her in his arms once more, which is what he did. Funny how it didn't occur to either of them to sit at opposing ends of the pantry, but instead he welcomed the warm, sweet comfort of her body pressed close to his.

Neither of them could relax, of course, given they were both unused to sleeping with someone else, each sadly out of practice. Not to mention that the pounding of their hearts prevented anything close to relaxation.

"Are you quite all right now, Lieutenant," he asked tentatively, his rich voice sounding loud in the darkness.

"Better," she said. "I'm sorry about this. Second time I was clumsy tonight. I don't know what's gotten into me."

"Lack of sleep dulls the senses," he said sympathetically. "Besides, I believe you asked me to pick up a new doorknob at the hardware shop. I fear I forgot in your absence."

"No," she countered, "I had said that _we_ should go to the hardware store and pick one out together."

Perhaps it was as she remembered, but he would rather take all the blame for this. She had enough on her plate than to assume responsibility for such a trifling matter.

"Spilt milk, Lieutenant," he said gently.

"Spilt milk," she agreed, though her toe still throbbed painfully where she'd stubbed it on the doorstop. She flexed her foot, inadvertently rubbing it against his equally bare one. She shivered again, but for an entirely different reason, and he instinctively held her closer to his warmth. She was forced to rest her head on his chest, where she could hear the rapid pounding of his heart beneath her ear. He wasn't as unaffected as he seemed. Oddly, this relaxed her, she smiled against the thin cotton of his pajama top.

They were silent a moment, and he tried to stay still so she might drift off, but it was a hopeless proposition for them both.

"Pawn to Queen 4," he said at last.

The image of a chessboard floated behind her closed eyelids. She grinned, and then she considered the answer to his opening move.

"Pawn to Queen 5," she countered, accepting his gambit.

They played this way for about an hour, until Crane had waited too long to suggest a move, and she didn't reply with hers. He could both hear and feel her steady breathing beside him, and while his back ached to switch positions on the hard floor, he didn't dare. He'd slept often enough on the cold ground as a soldier; whiling away the night on the floor with a beautiful woman was certainly no hardship by comparison.

Crane willed his body to unwind, though it was difficult with the smell of her hair tantalizing his senses, the dark curls tickling his nose when he bent his head slightly to inhale. Night blooming jasmine, he thought idly, remember the scent that infused the air on summer's evenings in eighteenth century New York. He could hold her like this forever—would do if she would let him.

It occurred to him that he hadn't felt this way for anyone since Katrina when they were first married, but even then it had been different. He had been much younger then, of course, when physical love had been new to them both. He allowed himself to ponder that time seriously a moment, and when he found it was no longer painful, merely bittersweet, he smiled and returned his focus to the woman currently in his arms.

Zoe had been right. He _was_ ready to move on, to find love again, but she was correct also that, despite her seeming suitability for him, they would have only suited on a surface level. She reminded him of the genteel young ladies he had known in his own time. Her love of history had drawn him further in, and had grown to admire her deeply. But he could see now that he could never love her, at least not in the way she deserved. If he were to be completely honest, he had never really been physically attracted to those perfect models of womanhood. He found that he in fact had a pattern of desiring ladies of a much more… _spirited_ temperament. They were women whom he feared just a little, whose adventurous natures set his heart stirring and his loins—he shifted self-consciously and tamped down that line of thought. At any rate, his greatest passions had been for women who had successfully seen beyond the proper exterior he presented to the rest of the world.

Katrina. Betsy Ross. And…

Zoe, in her inimitable way, had correctly implied that there was someone else that he cared for more than her. He was forced to confess to himself (if not yet to the woman in question) that he was in love with her. He had suspected it for some time, but there had been a myriad of obstacles that had prevented even considering the rightness of it. With no foreseeable romantic interlopers on the horizon, he was running out of excuses. And so there, on the uncomfortable floor of Abbie Mills's pantry, he stopped making them.

He loved Abbie Mills.

No—he would no longer hide from it. He was _in love_ with Abbie Mills.

His fellow witness.

His best friend.

His Lieutenant.

His _soul mate_. Crane was astute enough to recognize this was not merely a trite term for what they shared, for their souls had mated on more than one occasion, and no poet could begin to capture that level of intimacy.

Heart racing, he turned on his side to face her, no longer mindful of allowing her to sleep. The feelings he had so long denied were welling up inside of him, and he couldn't wait to let her know his true feelings, whether by his words, or by a deed he had hopelessly longed for.

"Abbie," he whispered, the unfamiliar sound of her name tasting sweet on his tongue.

She shifted a bit in sleep, her small, capable arms wrapping blindly around his torso.

"Abbie," he said again, and this time he sensed her eyes had fluttered open, felt the weight of her sleepy gaze attempt to focus on his face.

"Yes," she breathed, and he took that as an invitation.

His mouth dipped down to hers, the first touch of her full lips beneath his practically his undoing. She was all lushness and richness, tasting of sugar and vanilla and nothing else he could have possibly conjured in his imagination. She made a little moan in her throat, her breath hitching as he deepened the kiss.

He should have been more teasing, more seductive. No gentleman would behave this monstrously, especially not the first time a lady had granted the favor of her kiss. But for once in his incredible life, Ichabod Crane had relinquished his tightly tethered control, and so, it seemed, had Abbie Mills.

Her hands found their way to his hair, and she seemed to revel, not find revulsion, in his unrestrained passion. She tilted her head so he could plunder her mouth deeper still, and when her tongue caressed his, a wave of white heat suffused him. He knew he must be panting like an animal, pawing desperately at her lithe body, caressing her delectable derriere with large, fumbling hands, but since she was not protesting—indeed, she was returning his passion in kind, he could not find his way to stop this beautiful madness.

He kissed her until things began to reach a point of no return, which, it turned out, was when her small hands ventured to his fly. Crane wanted her like he had no other woman, wanted _this_ , yet distantly it occurred to him that their first time together should not be on the floor of a kitchen pantry. She deserved much better than that, and they both deserved time to think more clearly.

It shouldn't have surprised him that Abbie came to this conclusion at the exact same moment.

"Crane," she said haltingly. "We-we…should…stop."

"Yes," he said, "of course." His hand withdrew reluctantly from her waist, and he gently disentangled his long limbs from hers, sitting up before sliding his hands shakily through his disheveled hair.

For a few fraught moments, the only sound in the room was their labored breathing as they both willed their pulses to slow, their bodies to cool enough to speak.

"Well," he said, filling the awkward silence. "That was…unexpected."

"Yeah," she agreed. "I'm not sorry though."

"Nor am I."

"And I don't want an apolo—what?"

"You heard me, Lieutenant," he said, amused at her assumption, which, two hours before, might have been a logical one to make of him.

She laughed, and she found that she was no longer afraid of the dark—just incredibly impatient with it all of a sudden. She felt his hands go to her shoulders, and she wished with all her heart she could look into his beautiful blue eyes.

"But while it could be that this— _tryst_ of ours was ill-advised," he continued, "I find that I would like to see if it seems just as…meaningful in the light of day."

"That's a practical test. If we ever get the hell out of here."

"We will," he said, moving to stand, stretching his back after their exertions on the floor. "In the meantime, I think it best we steer clear of one other, for propriety's sake…and because I don't know if I can find the strength to resist you should you touch me again."

"Too much for you to handle, Crane?"

Her tone was laced with humor as well as something else. Happiness, perchance? It was difficult to tell in the dark, but somehow he sensed she was no longer afraid…of anything.

"Perhaps," he replied, but she could hear the smile in his voice.

"Hmph." Her confidence filled him with desire again.

He walked impatiently to the other end of the pantry, his boot bumping into a box that had fallen from the shelves earlier. He picked it up, recognizing by its size and the sound when he shook it that he had discovered the illusive box of Cocoa Puffs.

"Are you still hungry, Lieutenant?"

He sat down beside her again, mindful not to touch her, and opened the top of the box, then the inner plastic bag. He took a handful before handing the box to her. They munched the chocolate cereal and tried not to think of the sweeter taste of the other's mouth.

"Needs milk," she said, mouth full.

"Hmm," he said in agreement. "Or perhaps the removal of the artificial flavorings and colorings." He refused another handful of the stuff, and she was happy to keep the box to herself.

"It's dark. What does the color matter in here?"

"It matters not in the least. I have merely proven it would taste like a rubbish heap even to a blind man."

"If you're going to be an American, Crane, you have to embrace the artificiality of the modern world."

"I do not. On the contrary, I owe it to the patriots who fought for our liberty to protect myself from such influences, even if it comes from those near and dear to me. General Washington would not have allowed himself to fall prey to the subversiveness of commercial advertising."

He could practically hear her eyes rolling.

"You put old George in front of the TV for a day, and I guarantee you he'd want tacos and candy bars for breakfast."

" _I_ have thus far resisted. I have faith that he would be similarly strong-willed."

"Ha. I saw the box from the shopping network you tried to hide from me. What did you order, Crane? The commemorative coins with the presidents' heads on them?"

"Gold is a sound investment, Lieutenant. You should be thinking of your future—"

"Capitalism. It's the American way."

 _This_ was why he loved her. She challenged him. Excited him. Aroused-

I believe it's your move, Crane," she said.

"What?" he replied, swallowing hard.

"Our chess game. Your move." She made the mistake of nudging his arm. A jolt of desire shot through him.

"Very well," he managed. "Bishop to Queen 4."

"Well that was reckless," she said. "Queen takes bishop. And now you're in check, by the way."

"Is there any beer in here?" he asked suddenly, his throat dry.

He didn't have to see her grimace. "If you like warm beer, sure. Bottom shelf on your right."

"If you'll recall, we had no refrigeration in my time. Warm ale was the norm."

"I'd rather have a room temperature bottled water. There's a case of it right next to the beer, if you wouldn't mind."

"Not at all."

They opened their respective beverages, each taking a grateful swig.

"Feeling better," he asked.

"Much. And when we get out of here, in the light of day, we need to talk about this—whatever _this_ is between us."

His heart skipped a beat. "Yes," he agreed. "Indeed."

He took a long swig of his warm beer.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Abbie! Crane! Up and at 'em!"

The distant knock, then louder doorbell and call of her sister awakened the trapped couple. They lay once more in each other's arms, though that had not been their intention, and the immediate desire that sprung between them had them rising awkwardly to their feet. It was somewhat brighter inside the pantry now, the quality of the light beneath the door having changed with the morning sunlight streaming through the kitchen window. Crane could just barely make out the wild disarray of Abbie's hair, and, feeling his own, he knew he must look no better. His back was killing him, and he rose gingerly, like an old man. Also, after the two beers he'd consumed the night before, he was in desperate need of the privy.

Abbie went to the door of the pantry and pounded as loudly as she could.

"Jenny! We're stuck in the pantry!"

She wasn't sure her sister could hear her, but she knew that even if she couldn't, she would see that Abbie's car was still in the driveway, and, given their penchant for finding trouble, she would soon use her key to let herself in. A few minutes more of fruitless pounding and ringing, and Jenny unlocked the front door.

"Abbie?" she called again, once inside the house. They heard the door shut behind her, and Abbie imagined she was drawing the gun she carried in the concealed holster beneath her jacket.

Crane took his turn in summoning her.

"Miss Jenny! We are trapped inside the pantry. Might you be so kind as to let us out?"

"Crane?" They could hear her laughter. "You and Abbie are _both_ in there? How the hell did that happen?"

"A long story," replied Abbie dryly. "The key was broken in the lock, so you're gonna have to break off the doorknob."

"Hmm," said Jenny. "This is an interesting predicament. I could really milk this situation to my benefit."

"Miss Jenny," piped up Crane in warning. Not that he could do anything about her mischievousness.

"Let me borrow your new black dress, Abbie. Joe is taking me out for a fancy dinner on Valentine's Day."

"I just bought that dress," protested Abbie. "I was saving it for my 15th class reunion this summer. I got it on sale—"

"I know," said Jenny. "It'll look great on me, too."

"But—"

"Lend her the dress, by all means," muttered Crane, the pressure on his bladder becoming unbearable.

Abbie sighed, then gave the verdict to her sister. "Fine. But you are responsible for taking it to the cleaners afterwards."

"Deal."

"Good, now get that sledge hammer from the garage and—"

"Wait, I'm not finished. Crane?"

"Yes, Miss Jenny," he said, barely restraining his sarcasm. "How might I be of assistance?"

"I need a Latin tutor."

"Latin?" he said in surprise. "Since when have you an interest in what you once termed a _dead language_?"

"Since I signed up for a few classes at the university. I had to take a foreign language, and I thought Latin might be helpful with what we seem to run into around here."

"Seriously?" exclaimed Abbie excitedly. "That's great! Good for you. I can help you study—"

"Ladies, please! Miss Jenny, as your new tutor, might I offer you your first Latin phrase: _tempus fugit_!"

Jenny chuckled. "All right all right, I know what that means. I'll be right back."

Abbie grinned, then noticed how Crane seemed unable to stand still.

"Doing the pee pee dance, Crane?" she asked with some amusement.

"For want of a more couth expression—yes."

She moved closer to him, stood on tiptoe to plant a swift kiss upon his cheek. She misjudged her aim in the dimness, and her lips landed instead on the corner of his mouth.

"What—what was that for?" he asked softly, barely resisting the urge to pull her against him and ravage her mouth.

"For being here for me. For your patience and understanding. Once again, you found a way to save me."

He didn't point out the fact that he couldn't save her from the dark pantry, but he knew what she meant, and he accepted her thanks gracefully.

"It was my pleasure—except for the cereal and the warm beer. I find I prefer my beer chilled these days. I fully enjoyed the company."

She patted his cheek, kissing him once more, this time, squarely on the lips. Her aim had been true.

"I'll make a modern man of you yet."

"God, let us hope not," he said with a shudder.

But before she could argue, Jenny was telling them to step back from the door, counting down to the heavy swing of the sledgehammer…

 **A/N: Thank you for reading. I know the "stuck in the closet" trope might be a cliché, but elevators and locked doors tend to force certain emotions, I have found, so yes, I admit to shamelessly utilizing it here. Please let me know what you think.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you so much for your warm welcome to this fandom! I appreciated each and every review, and hope I can continue to entertain with the continuation of this story.**

 **Chapter 2**

Once free of the pantry, Crane gave Jennie and quick bow of appreciation, then promptly excused himself. Abbie stared after him a moment, then turned to her sister with a smile and a grateful hug.

"Thanks. I owe you one. Well, several, but I was going a little batty in there, to tell you the truth."

"Hm," said Jennie knowingly.

"What?"

"Never mind. Glad I could help you two out. You still up for a run, or is there some residual post-traumatic stress going on here…?" Abbie ignored her ironic smirk.

"No. No. Let me freshen up a bit and change, and we'll go. I really need to get outside for awhile."

Abbie went to her own bathroom, and, after using the facilities, she washed her hands and face. Her expression when she looked in the mirror caught her so off guard that she paused, staring. She detected a strange mixture of fear and happiness animating her features. Her fingers went to her lips, and she closed her eyes, imagining Crane's mouth there. The memory was almost as surreal as her recent ten-months in limbo.

He'd kissed her.

Ichabod Crane had _kissed_ her. 

"Dear God," she whispered—the words coming out as both a plea for guidance and an exclamation of bewilderment.

She shook her head at herself, smiled a little, and went to her bedroom to change into her running clothes. She prayed some fresh air would clear the fog of passion and confusion Crane had stirred within her.

When she passed through the kitchen, Crane was nowhere to be found, but Jenny was drinking the coffee she had made herself.

"You want some?"

"No. It'll just make me jittery. Best way to cure a coffee addiction is to be trapped on a weird spiritual plane for ten months."

Jenny shuddered and took another sip. "No thanks."

"You ready? 'Cause I'm definitely ready."

"Yeah, yeah. Keep your pants on." Jenny gave her sister another meaningful glance, which Abbie chose to ignore.

Outside, the two women took a few moments to stretch, Abbie breathing deeply of the cool morning, feeling newly energized. Yes, this was just what she needed.

They set off down the quiet street at an easy jog, Abbie's foot still a bit tender from her run-in with the pantry door. She shook her head as other images of last night invaded her newfound peace, and resolutely pushed them out of her mind. All that was defeating the purpose of this run.

Jenny noticed her sister's strange silence, and Abbie realized belatedly she probably should have gone running alone.

"So Crane couldn't wait to get away from us," Jenny said casually. Abbie wasn't fooled though; her sister was on a little fishing expedition.

"He had to use the bathroom. We both did. He'd had a couple beers…"

"Aw," said Jenny, as if that explained it.

"He wasn't drunk. Believe me, it takes more than two beers to inebriate Crane. I'm convinced that everyone in the eighteenth century must have been alcoholics, the way that man can hold his liquor…" She realized her characterization of him sounded way too affectionate by far. She wiped the grin off her face and clamped her mouth shut.

"Okay. Still…He was acting pretty strange though, even for him."

Abbie didn't comment.

"Oh, come on, Abbie. I saw your little love nest in that pantry. And the tension between the two of you was practically… _electric._ What the hell happened in there?"

Abbie rolled her eyes, but remained stubbornly silent.

Jenny moved ahead of her, jogging backwards so she could see her sister's face more clearly.

"Look, it took a long time for me to drop my guard with Joe. But God, Abbie, I'm so glad I did. If you and Crane—"

Abbie stopped abruptly, her hands going to her knees as she bent her head over them and closed her eyes, her accelerated breath coming out as fog in the cold air.

Jenny waited patiently for the explanation that was sure to come. Her sister may not have wanted to talk—but she definitely _needed_ to. Jenny could be patient now-but she didn't need to wait long.

"We kissed," said Abbie softly.

"What?"

Abbie raised her head and met Jenny's eyes. "We kissed," she repeated.

"Oh, my God! I knew it was something like that. I'm so happy for you both. And I have to say, it's about freakin' time!"

Abbie looked startled.

"Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. You obviously love each other. And if I didn't know it before, I just had to see how Crane was acting when he thought he'd lost you."

"What do you mean?"

They began walking again, making no pretext now to working up to their usual pulse-pounding run.

"God, Abbie, the guy was going crazy! He stopped eating. Stopped sleeping. His eyes were red from reading those dusty old tomes of his, searching constantly for leads. He wasn't going to give up on you, when I—well, honestly, I was starting to think it was hopeless. I wasn't going to stop looking, but my confidence that you were alive was really starting to wane. Not Crane's though. Never Crane's. It was then I saw with my own eyes how much he loved you. And when he saw you again—Jeeze, Abbie, didn't you see the way that man looked at you?"

"Yes," she said softly, admitting to herself for the first time that in that moment, all she'd wanted to do was hold him and never let go.

"Well, okay then."

They strolled along in silence, Abbie trying to absorb all that Jenny had said, how this new information of Crane's behavior while she was gone made her happier than she should have been. She never wanted to cause him pain, after all…

"I was a little crazy without him too," she admitted. "I even—well, I _spoke_ to him. In that cave all alone. You know how people sometimes talk to themselves? Well, he was like my Wilson, from that movie." She laughed at herself a little.

Jenny grinned. "You didn't find a rock or something and paint a face on it, did you? Complete with a beard and dark eyebrows?"

"No, but I know for sure I couldn't have made it through without imagining he was there…"

Her words hung in the air like their mingling breath, and Jenny reached over to briefly squeeze Abbie's cold hand.

"You love him."

This time, Abbie didn't hesitate. "Yes…I suppose I do. Dammit."

Jenny laughed. "It's not like you got bad news from the dentist. This is great, Abbie, for both of you. Lord knows you two are long overdue for some happiness."

Abbie looked sidelong at her sister. "Listen to you—going on and on about happiness and love. Who the hell _are_ you? Has some demon come and possessed you again?"

"So not funny." But Jenny smiled regardless. It was obvious her feelings for Joe, but it was still so new, so tender, that she didn't want to tempt fate by talking too much about it. Besides, there was still too much teasing to do of Abbie.

"So, how was it?"

"Jenny." Abbie felt her face grow warm in spite of the chilly air.

"Seriously. Was it good? I'm thinking it was. And those eyes of his—"

"It was dark, remember?"

"Oh, even better. Much more exciting that way."

Abbie shook her head. "You're incorrigible."

"Well?"

"Yes."

"Yes, it was good?"

Abbie stopped walking, her hands going up to cover her heated face a moment. Then, it all came out in an excited rush, her hands waving around animatedly. "Oh, my God, Jenny! That man knows how to kiss. And his beard is so soft, and his hair—don't even get me started on his hair. I've never felt so—so—"

"Alive? Passionate? _Hot?_ " Jenny suggested helpfully.

"Yes, well—all of those things, and more. The men these days could learn a thing or two from a colonial gentleman."

"But he wasn't _too_ much of a gentleman, was he?" Jenny asked worriedly.

Abbie giggled with uncharacteristic girlishness. "Uh, no. Not at all. I mean, he realized we'd better stop before things went too far. I don't think either of us wanted to do it on the hard floor."

"Well, there's something to say about floors…" Jenny looked a little nostalgic.

Abbie raised an eyebrow. "I don't want to know."

They continued to walk, each lapsing into their own romantic musings.

"So, what now?" asked Jenny. "Not that you should start over-analyzing everything like you usually do…"

"Too late for that advice."

"It figures. And if I know Crane, he's driving himself crazy second-guessing everything you guys did in that pantry."

Abbie had to smile. "You're probably right."

"You should have some pity on the guy and tell him it meant just as much to you."

"You mean just come right out and say it?"

"Sure. Why not? Why waste time? You of all people know how valuable time is. And Crane knows a little bit about that, too."

"Yeah…I guess we do."

"Then, tell him. The poor guy is probably pacing the floor right now, wondering if he should do the same thing…"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After Crane's hasty retreat to the bathroom, a wave of tiredness came over him. He removed his pajama top to splash water on his face and hands, hoping it would wake him up a bit. He returned to his bedroom, meaning only to lie down for a moment. Memory of the night's events should have kept him wide-awake without the dousing of cold water, analyzing every detail of the passionate kisses he'd shared with Abbie. His spirit was willing, but his body was exhausted, however, and he was asleep within minutes of slipping beneath the covers.

Crane's dreams took over where his waking analysis had failed him, and he found himself once more in the pantry, Abbie's lithe body beneath his, continuing where in life he'd had a stronger will to resist. He awoke hard and trembling, the house quiet, the sun behind his window blinds disorientingly high. The clock beside his bed proclaimed it was 10:08, and he bolted upright in alarm. He'd nearly slept half the day away.

He arose and found his way to the shower, heart still pounding, but more from the residual effects of his erotic dreams than from the elapsed time on the clock.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 _Three hours earlier…_

Jenny and Abbie parted ways outside the house, Jenny jumping into her car and heading back to Joe.

"Good luck, sis," Jenny said out the window as she drove away.

Abbie smiled nervously, waving her off. Crane himself had said they needed to talk about what had transpired in the darkness in the light of day. Well, the day had dawned, and it was time to lay their cards on the table.

She entered the house, surprised to find it quiet. Usually by this time, Crane would have been drinking his tea and perusing the morning paper, but he was nowhere to be found in the front part of the house. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, cocking her head to listen for the shower, or the sound of Crane moving about his bedroom. But there was nothing but the faint ticking of the clock on the mantle.

She crept tentatively down the hallway, pausing by Crane's door. It was halfway open, and Abbie peeped inside, telling herself it was in concern for his wellbeing, not a subconscious desire to catch him unclothed. No, certainly not. But she was both relieved and disappointed to find the man fast asleep in his bed, his breathing deep and even, his hands beneath his pillow, long eyelashes resting peacefully against his cheekbones. Her breath caught a little when she realized he was no longer wearing his staid nightshirt. She could just see his well-defined arms, the smattering of hair across his nicely-formed chest. She had a sudden longing to glide her hand enticingly over that exposed skin, to feel for herself how warm and firm his naked body was.

She took a few steps inside his room, pulse racing at her own temerity. She made barely a sound as she walked to stand beside his bed. Her heart squeezed at his masculine beauty, at the boyish tousle of hair falling over his forehead. Did she dare say his name and awaken him? Would he look up at her in surprise, then hold his hand out in invitation? Would she fall easily into bed with him and continue what they started on the pantry floor?

She reached out and touched him lightly on the shoulder, but he didn't stir, so she moved her hand gingerly away. Bravely, she brushed back a lock of hair from his closed eyes, but his breathing didn't change. He was completely out of it, poor guy, she thought tenderly. But then she dropped her hand as a thought occurred to her, and Abbie found herself suddenly annoyed. She frowned.

How the hell could he sleep after all that had happened? No way _she_ could sleep. Come to think of it, how _dare_ he lie in bed when the world had been thrown off its axis and their lives had changed forever?

She was tempted now to nudge him awake and berate him for sleeping when he'd promised they would talk this morning. She moved to do so, but paused at the last second when she heard him mutter something in his sleep.

"Abbie."

Heart clenching, she waited. A full minute passed, but he said no more, only turned restlessly to his stomach, the muscles of his back flexing as he moved. Another minute, and Abbie gave up. Her tender feelings returned at the thought that if he were not facing her in a conscious state, at least she was there in his dreams. She bent and kissed him gently on one bare shoulder.

"Sleep tight, Crane," she whispered, and left him to his dreams.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Showered and dressed for the day in his usual modified colonial garb, Crane ate a hasty breakfast and left to continue his research into handling Pandora and the ills she had loosed upon the world. He had slept away the time he had set aside to ponder what his newfound intimacy with Abbie meant, how he should proceed— _if_ he should proceed. So in a way, he was relieved that she hadn't been home when he awoke, had decided to return to the FBI a few days early, or so said her text.

 _I still wish to speak with you in person, as we had planned,_ was his texted reply.

 _Sure. I'll see you tonight._

He re-read her message at least a dozen times, trying to figure out what she truly meant by those five casual (seeming?) words. Was she upset with him? Had she decided that she regretted their interlude? And while he absently read a text in ancient Greek, he began to feel that perhaps he had pushed things too far with her. She was a lady, his lieutenant, despite the modern times in which they lived. She should therefore be treated as such; not like a common hoyden one might pick up at a local tavern, or brazenly accost upon a pantry floor.

Yes, that was the solution exactly, thought Crane. They must take things more slowly, ease into this new phase of their relationship. He should court her properly— _date_ her, as they called it these days. Fine meals at reputable establishments, or at home by his own hand. Moonlight strolls (when for once they weren't hunting creatures in the night). He would write odes to her beauty, sing love songs outside her window. Bring her flowers or sweets. He would show her through his deeds how much he truly cared for her, and, if she desired after that to move things to their inexorable conclusion (ie. to the marriage bed) then it will have been because he had truly won her, not because he had taken advantage of her fear of the dark.

Yes, indeed, thought Crane happily. This is how it should be.

Resolutely focusing on the Greek description of Pandora, he pushed aside any niggling doubts that Abbie's desires might be found on a completely different page…

 **A/N: Thanks for reading. I'm so glad I decided to continue, because for the first time in a long time I feel inspired by a show enough to write about it. I hope you will come back for more, and in the meantime, let me know what you think of this chapter!**

 **P.S.: Being new to writing for this show, I am still a little shaky on some of the details you diehard fans might know, and I hate making mistakes. I plan to rewatch the entire series from the beginning to try to become an expert, but is there any website out there or maybe an Instagram page that you could recommend for specific details of past episodes? Or, if any of you would volunteer to be my expert advisor, that would be greatly appreciated as well. Thanks!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I continue to be flattered by your kind reviews and offers of help with the details. I'm sure I'll be calling on some of you very soon, especially if I write more in this fandom. I'm having fun so far, so maybe, with your encouragement, I'll continue. Thanks so much!**

 **Chapter 3**

It had been a long first day back with the FBI for Abbie. It was spent mainly on briefings of cases she had missed, and catching up on the mountain of email and memos she'd received in just three weeks, though to Abbie, of course, it was nearly a year. She really had to focus to remember where she'd left off, an especially difficult task since she couldn't get Crane's kisses off her mind.

It was just turning dark when she drove up to her house, and she had to do a double take when she saw what was waiting on the street beneath a streetlamp. An open carriage with two white horses stood idly with their handler, a man in Victorian clothing, complete with top hat. It was the kind of horse and carriage that was used to give romantic rides to the tourists at Christmas or on warm summer evenings.

Abbie pulled into the driveway with a strange feeling of anticipation, but before she could grasp the door handle herself, Ichabod Crane was pulling it gallantly open for her.

She looked up at him in the glow of the headlights, her breath catching a little at the tall, beautiful man before her. He had somehow managed to find the dress blue uniform of a Continental Captain, complete with tri-corn hat, polished Hessian boots, and even a long, shining sword hanging at his side. After flipping off her headlights, she took his proffered hand and allowed him to help her out.

"Lieutenant," he said, bowing in that graceful way of his. "Abbie," he said softly. He kept her warm hand in his gloved one. She was briefly at a loss for coherent words.

"What—how—what's all this, Crane?" she asked in wonder.

"I pray you would allow me to escort you on a ride through town, culminating in a modest repast in a…surprising location"—here his eyebrows waggled a bit mysteriously—"It's a lovely evening for a ride, is it not?"

It was, though there was a definite chill in the air, and Abbie had heard there might be snow. But the full moon teased them, slipping in and out of the gathering clouds, playing hide and seek with the first evening stars. Practical, no-nonsense Abbie Mills suddenly found it almost unbearably romantic.

"It _is_ nice," she agreed lamely.

"So you'll join me?"

She was touched by Crane's gesture and the obvious trouble he had gone to, though part of her was a bit surprised at the change in plan—at least the plan _she'd_ had in mind to sit down in her living room and calmly discuss their passionate kisses. Abbie wasn't exactly a spontaneous sort of gal, but Crane's expression was so inviting, she could not refuse him.

She smiled at his earnest expression. "Yes, Crane," she said. "I'll join you. I feel a little underdressed though." He was amazingly handsome in his uniform, and she felt a little self-conscious in her workday pantsuit and heavy coat.

He looked down at her from his towering height (at least it always seemed towering to her), and his hand ghosted over her dark curls. He met her eyes in the dimness.

"You're beautiful, just as you are," he said reverently.

She swallowed, the quickening of her pulse in his presence becoming all too familiar.

"Thanks," she managed.

Caught up in the moment as well, Crane shook his head slightly as if to clear it, dropped his hand, cleared his throat.

"Shall we?"

He escorted her to the carriage, seeing her inside with an elegant ease, quickly climbing in after her and sitting beside her, both facing forward. He pulled up a warm fleece blanket to their throats, then encouraged her to place her feet on a warm bundle on the floor of the carriage.

The driver climbed atop the box seat and, with a glance back at Crane, who nodded back, they were off.

They were quiet for a few minutes, absorbing the view of the street from this new vantage point, enjoying the pleasant _clop-clop_ of the horses' shoes upon the pavement. When Abbie shivered, he pulled her closer to him beneath the blanket. He removed his leather glove and held her cold hand within his warm one. She rested her head on his shoulder, enjoying herself more than she thought she would.

"This is great," she said, closing her eyes. She inhaled the intriguing scent of bergamot and sandalwood, smiling to herself that Crane at last was using the cologne she'd gotten him for Christmas. He was not one for dousing himself in modern fragrances, having told her that men and women alike used to perfume themselves to mask their body odor. He'd become so accustomed to bathing daily that now heavy colognes reminded him too much of the negative aspects of his time.

But for her on this night, he'd worn the old-fashioned, subtle fragrance she had painstakingly picked out for him. She snuggled to his side, her newfound feelings warming her as much as the hot bricks at her feet.

"It _is_ great," echoed Crane, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. They drove on in silence, the darkening sky seeming to insulate them against the rest of the world, their method of conveyance taking them to another time. She dozed against him, the swaying of the carriage, the steady sound of the horses' hooves, and the warmth of the man beside her lulling her to sleep. Once, Abbie could have sworn she felt the gentle pressure of Crane's face in her hair, but it might have been a dream.

After thirty minutes, they reached their destination. The carriage stopped abruptly, jerking Abbie awake. She sat up, rubbing her eyes in embarrassment, but Crane didn't seem to notice or care. He became instantly animated, his natural ebullience for life making her heart flutter. He squeezed her hand beneath the blanket.

"Here we are, Lieutenant!"

He rose, and she immediately missed the warmth of his body, but his hand found hers again, and he helped her to the ground. Abbie recognized their location by the large, glass, crystaline building lit from within: The Sleepy Hollow Botanical Gardens and Conservatory.

"Oh, I love this place! But I haven't been inside since a field trip in high school."

"I discovered it myself recently, and it stayed in my mind as a wonderful haven against the winter's cold. I struck up a conversation with the head gardener—an amazingly knowledgeable fellow on the care and maintenance of hot house orchids—and when I called upon him this afternoon, he said it would be no trouble if we were to utilize the facility for a few hours after its closing, given that it is the off season."

Abbie's eyebrows shot up. Knowing Crane's penchant to leave out what he assumed were unimportant details, she had no doubt that the story behind their takeover of the building was more complicated than he led on.

"Oh! I nearly forgot!" He reached back into the carriage, bringing out a picnic basket that had been stored beneath the seat. "Our supper!" he announced proudly.

"I'm impressed, Crane. You planned all this on very short notice."

He held out his arm for her to take, and they began walking down the tree-lined path to the ethereal greenhouse. He paused at her statement, and he became serious once more, choosing his words carefully.

"Last night…we left things, well—unclear. I felt the need to take us away from the troubles of our recent past, where we could also…distance ourselves from the night's events. Perhaps here we will be able to be more… _objective_ about what occurred."

"Maybe," Abbie said skeptically. She herself had attempted to escape the scene of the crime—The Pantry—and had gone into work. A change of venue had done nothing to allow her to see things more clearly. In fact, from the moment he'd kissed her last night, things had finally fallen into place, had become as clear as the glass of this wondrous greenhouse.

"Well, allow me to convince you otherwise," he said, misunderstanding her, though his smile returned.

He opened the door to the Conservatory, and the tropical warmth greeted them like a welcoming host. The heavenly scents of exotic flowers and the pleasant pungency of rich earth filled their nostrils. Tall trees reached up into the domed ceiling, ferns covering the ground as they would an Amazonian jungle. They couldn't help but feel they'd stepped into another world.

Maybe this _was_ what they needed.

"Come," he said, leading her to where a colorful blanket and pillows had been spread beneath a flowering hibiscus tree. He set down the basket and they both knelt, then sat on the pillows.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

She was, but her stomach was filled with butterflies. But he'd gone to so much trouble, and besides, it might postpone their talk of serious things, the thought of which made her equal parts anxious and excited.

"Sure," she said, chickening out. "Let's eat."

Ichabod Crane's picnic basket would make Hermione Granger proud, mused Abbie as she watched him pull out cold, poached chicken, pasta salad, a tray of antipasti, fruit, and chocolate cupcakes, and a bottle of white wine. All her favorites.

"Wow," said an awe-filled Abbie. "Are we expecting the rest of the regiment?"

He shrugged sheepishly. "I didn't quite know what to bring, so I loaded up on whatever I could fit in the basket."  
"I can see that."

He gave her a fine china plate, linen napkin, and real silverware. So it would be a "civilized" picnic, she thought in amusement. Crane rarely went half-hearted on anything. A thrill swept through her body at the thought.

As they dished up their plates, and Crane uncorked the bottle, they soon found they were hungrier than they'd thought, given that both of them had been so nervous and jittery all day that neither of them had been able to eat much.

"Everything's delicious," she said truthfully, sipping her wine. It was crisp and light, fitting perfectly with the warmth of the greenhouse. They'd both removed their coats, Crane setting his sword on the blanket beside him, Abbie removing her sidearm.

Crane grinned. "How many couples do you know bring weapons on a date?"

"Date?" she repeated before she could think.

She had the pleasure of watching Crane flush with embarrassment. "Yes," he admitted. "I was thinking— _hoping_ , that is, that you might give me the pleasure of courting you, in the grand style that you deserve."

She tried not to smile at the old-fashioned characterization. "Courting," she marveled. "That's a new one on me." It had been a long time since any man had wined and dined her, let alone given much thought beyond reservations at a fancy restaurant.

"I'll admit courting was much different in my day," said Crane. "For one thing, no young woman would be seen accompanied by an unrelated man without a chaperone, and courting usually consisted of balls, formal dinners, escorted strolls through the gardens, or carriage rides with the young lady's maid in tow."

Abbie nodded, humor sparkling in her eyes. "I've read _Pride and Prejudice."_

"That fine novel took place long after my time, but the mores were much the same."

"Well, I certainly don't want to be _ruined_ ," she said, affecting a proper British accent.

He met Abbie's eyes suspiciously. "You're laughing at me, Lieutenant."

She reached out and touched his thigh. "No," she said, her smile gentle. "Not at all. This is really nice, Crane. It _is_ good to get away."

His hand covered hers, but then he lifted it to his lips, turning it up so he could plant a kiss upon her soft palm, his beard tickling her sensitized skin. He briefly closed his eyes, as if savoring the moment, then he looked up at her once more, his eyes impossibly blue, his pupils large with desire. "I am always happy to be with you, Abbie, wherever we are," he said, and the use of her name made her tremble as much as the firmness of his mouth or the promise in his eyes.

He set her hand down reluctantly, and she closed her fist over his kiss, the warmth of which she could still feel upon her hand. They ate in silence, Crane's romantic gesture heightening the unresolved tension, though at the same time, she felt closer to him than ever.

Abbie ate two cupcakes and drank another glass of wine, seeking fortification for the conversation to come. She noticed Crane was on his third glass, but neither of them commented. The alcohol did its job, however, and Crane sat back on his pillow, relaxing against the hibiscus tree, his hands resting on his full belly. He eyed Abbie, smiling gently.

"We are quite the pair this evening, aren't we? I suppose we might as well get to the _other_ point of our picnic…"

"Getting drunk?" she asked, downing the last of what was in her glass. She shook the near-empty bottle and frowned.

He chuckled. "No. That probably wouldn't be wise." She met his eyes, knowing full well what he meant.

"No," she agreed, "it wouldn't be. So we should discuss… _The Pantry_."

"Yes. Quite." He noticed her emphasis with good humor. It had in after one night become the most improper of proper nouns.

"Crane, I really think we—"

"Lieutenant, perhaps I should—"

They had both spoken at once, then laughed breathlessly.

"I was going to suggest that I begin," said Crane. "But if you would like to say something first…"

"No, go ahead," she said in relief. The wine made him chuckle, but he sobered right away when he looked into her fathomless eyes.

"Last night was monumental for me, in more ways than one. And I came to a few realizations that took me quite by surprise."

"Me too."

A glimmer of surprised hope lit his eyes, and he smiled. "Good."

"What were they?" she asked.

"What?"

"Your realizations, Crane."

"Oh. Oh, yes. Well…first let me say that ever since I met you, you have come to mean the world to me, and in some ways, almost in the literal sense. You have stood by me, believed in me, saved my life more times than I can count. Even when my wife re-appeared, though I know you had your doubts about her, you waited for me to come to the same conclusions myself. Indeed, you have been my world, and though I left the country to escape my mixed emotions after Katrina, after I—" here he shuddered in remembrance of his hand in her death, but he swallowed and went bravely on. "Well, I soon found that no distance could separate me from the hold you had on my heart, though I refused to admit that was what really led me back here. At any rate, after what transpired last night, I find I can deny my feelings no longer."

Abbie held her breath, desperate to hear the words that she felt welling in her own heart.

"Lieutenant—Abbie—I—duck!"

"Duck?" She said, bewildered.

He moved to push her head down, just as an other-worldly creature swiped a deadly claw toward her head. Abbie fell forward on the blanket, catching herself at the last minute before she could land on her face. Crane, meantime, had risen, grabbing his sword and making a stand against the hideous demon assailing them.

Its skin was sallow and sickly, as if it never saw the sunlight, its scaly body completely devoid of covering, even in the coldness of winter. Its long arms nearly touched the ground, talons like a hawk's protruding dangerously from its many-jointed fingers. Most disturbing of all, however, was the absence of a mouth in the creature's misshapen, hairless head. Large golden eyes peered over a flat nose, but in the brief moments before Crane cut off its head, Abbie had the disgusting suspicion that the thing's jagged mouth was actually in its stomach, reminding her of the beak of an octopus.

The pair stood over the body, both breathing heavily from shock and sudden exertion. The stomach/mouth of the creature opened and closed a few times as if gasping for breath, then was still forever.

"What the hell is _that_?" Abbie panted, her gun still pointed at the dead thing bleeding black blood all over the conservatory floor.

Crane touched the decapitated head experimentally with the tip of his bloodied sword.

"I've no idea, but no doubt Pandora sent it to put a damper on our supper," he said dryly.

"So something else from her box of tricks? Great."

Abbie looked in disgust at the mess. "Lucky you brought your sword, Crane."

"Yes. It seems _most_ things are easily dispatched by a quick beheading, thank God."

Their eyes met at the irony, having witnessed the one exception that had followed Crane into this century. No need to bring up that bit of history, however.

"I guess we'd better clean this up before your friend the gardener finds it." She kicked the head onto the blanket to rest beside the body.

"Yuck," she said. "I'm glad we already ate."

Crane grinned wryly. "Indeed."

Together they gathered up what could be salvaged from the picnic basket, cleared that away and folded the corpse into the blanket. Abbie peaked out the glass wall to find that the driver had left.

"Hey, where's our ride?"

"Samuel had orders to return in two hours' time. Sooner, if I called. Or perhaps, uh, later, if need be." She was amused to see his adorable blush.

"Thought you might get lucky, did you?" she couldn't resist teasing, as she took one end of the creature burrito, Crane the other.

" _Hoped_ might be the better term," he admitted.

"Hmm. The night is still young, Crane."

"That it is," he said softly, walking backward toward the door with his share of the burden.

The gardener had asked that Crane turn off the lights and lock up when they left, so Abbie and Crane had relative privacy as they took the creature outside to find a likely place for the thing's burial. They found shovels in a utility room of the greenhouse, and as the snow began to fall around them, they began to dig.

"You sure know how… to show…a girl…a good time," she panted, after they'd been digging perhaps thirty minutes. The ground was cold, making it difficult to move the frozen earth. The snow, at first only lightly falling, had increased to heavy white flakes, obstructing their view and beginning to bury the corpse faster than they could.

"This certainly was not my idea of a romantic evening," he said, his once shiny boots soiled with mud as he pushed in the shovel with his foot. "Perhaps we should have called Miss Jenny to come with her truck."

"And ruin our date? Not a chance. We're almost done, and by spring, this guy will be covered with flowers."

Crane let out an ungentlemanly snort and continued to dig.

After another hour, Mr. Ugly, as Abbie had affectionately begun to call their dead friend, was safely buried in a forgotten part of the garden, grass and flower seeds sprinkled liberally over his resting place for good measure. They had just squirted the blood off the path inside the greenhouse when Crane received a text from the driver.

"He's on his way," said Crane somewhat sadly as Abbie returned from the outdoor dumpster. She'd had to dispose of the blood-spattered pillows, which was a shame, she'd thought.

Crane finished re-coiling the hose, and Abbie moved to stand before him, brushing her dirty hands together in vain. She looked down at her soiled clothes with a sigh. Crane's eyes smiled down at her, and he brushed the snow from her dark hair, though it melted quickly in the warm air of the conservatory. From over their heads he plucked a bright red hibiscus, nestling it above one of her delicate ears. His smile widened at the lovely picture she made.

"We're still a great team," he said affectionately, taking her cold hands in his. She'd borrowed his gloves while they'd dug, but they both were struggling to thaw out, each looking exactly like they'd been digging a grave in a snowstorm.

"Yes. No one else could ever understand the crazy lives we lead, except maybe Jenny and Joe. Luckily they've found each other."

"As have we, Lieutenant."

Before she could protest—not that she would have wanted to—he lowered his head and found her mouth, warming her lips with his as the kiss turned instantly passionate. He explored her mouth with a hot, seeking tongue, and she moaned as she lost herself in the kiss, holding his body close to hers, his brass buttons pressing into her chest. His neck began to tire, so, without missing a beat, Crane picked Abbie up at the waist and set her on a nearby tree stump. He felt her smile against his lips, her fingers finding the soft hair at his nape as they stood at a much more comfortable eye-to-eye. His lips were skillful, drugging, making her dizzy with need. Her hands slipped inside his coat as his settled just beneath her breasts, sending her heart on a mad, bucking ride.

So much for objectivity.

His lips slid across her cheek so that they both might catch their breaths, and he whispered three words into her ear: "I adore you."

She shivered, and it was all she could do not to jump on him and wrap her legs around his narrow waist. Instead, she held him more tightly around his torso, her eyes squeezed shut, her head resting against his pounding heart. She knew they must slow things down before Samuel returned with the carriage, but all she could think of was unbuttoning his staid uniform and having her way with that warm, muscular body she could feel beneath his clothes.

"Is it too late to text him back," she asked, feeling his heart make a mighty thump at her suggestion.

She could tell by the tensing of his body that he really wanted to stay with her there, in their warm, tropical paradise, but he sighed in resignation.

"I'm afraid we should let him retrieve us as soon as possible. The snow is coming down so fast now we might not be able to make it home as it is."

She lifted her head to look at him, enjoying this new vantage point, his perfect face close to hers, his blue eyes twinkling with humor and passion. Her hand caressed his beard, and she wanted to melt at the softness of it.

She kissed his lips lightly, felt his breath catch at the first time she'd taken the initiative with him. She pulled gently, lingeringly away, heady with the power she felt knowing she affected him as much as he did her.

"Maybe we'll be snowed in tomorrow," she offered hopefully.

They shared a vision of their bodies entwined before a roaring fire in her living room. He embraced her then, her small body molding perfectly to his.

"Did I ever tell you how much I like the way you think, Lieutenant?"

 **A/N: More soon! Thanks so much for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I love that people are still reading and enjoying this story. Thanks for the reviews as well as the follows and favorites. They really inspire me! This chapter might be classified on the verge of an "M" rating, but don't fear; I try to be very tasteful. If that doesn't interest you, however, you might want to skip past the last section. Enjoy.**

 **Chapter 4**

Crane awoke with the excitement of a child on Christmas morn. He rose from his bed and went immediately to the window, opening the blinds to peek out at the winter wonderland that greeted him. There must have been a foot of snow blanketing the ground, hanging heavily in the evergreens. And by the looks of the large flakes still falling at a fast clip, that amount would soon double.

From the other side of his bedroom wall he heard Abbie's muffled voice, speaking into her phone.

"Seriously? Should I be insulted to be classified as _non-essential personnel_?" He heard the soft tinkle of her laughter, and it made Crane smile, his heart clenching a little. "Okay, I'm not complaining. It's just that I just got back…Yeah. Okay. Well, thanks, Daniel. See you _whenever_ …Bye."

Abbie's wish for a snow day had been granted, thought Crane. For once, the gods were smiling upon them. Crane's excitement bubbled up once more, and he found his dressing gown, even more anxious to begin their day, snowed in together in their cozy—

The knock on the door had Crane's stomach plummeting. He listened while Abbie opened it to her sister and her suitor, Master Corbin.

"Hey! What are you all doing out in this weather?"

"Electricity went out in the trailer from the heavy snow. Can we crash here a few days?"

"Bloody hell," said Crane under his breath. He leaned his head against the door, closing his eyes, softly pounding his forehead once in frustration. _The gods giveth, and they just as quickly taketh away._

"Sure, come on in," Abbie was saying, but Crane felt his hope renewed at the exaggerated politeness in her tone. She was no happier about this development than he was.

With a heavy sigh, Crane tied the sash of his robe and opened the door to face the music. Despite their unexpected company, he was anxious to see Abbie again. Their night before had been utterly amazing, the visit from one of Pandora's minions notwithstanding. When their carriage had arrived to pick them up from the Conservatory, Samuel had thoughtfully put up the cover of the carriage, and they had ridden through the snow, snuggled together beneath the blanket, the half-hour's journey increased by the weather to a blessed hour. For Crane, who had witnessed many wondrous things in his life, this was by far the most magical.

They alternately kissed passionately, softly moaning as seeking hands caressed and stroked through the frustrating barriers of their clothing, and kissed tenderly, speaking in the intimate whispers of new lovers.

By the time they reached the house again, they were both dozing just as they had earlier, the stillness of the falling snow, the gentle swaying of the carriage, along with the warmth of their entwined bodies helping to ease them into sleep. Certainly the mostly sleepless night in the pantry, the wine at dinner, and the exertions of burying a corpse had taken their toll, and they had agreed with a last, lingering kiss in the hallway between their rooms that while their spirits were more than willing, their bodies were down for the count.

Still, it had taken Crane some time to fall asleep, for he could hear Abbie showering away the grime and the cold, and imagining her in the altogether was not very conducive to relaxation. Indeed, he could still feel the softness of her lips upon his, the unbearable eroticism of her small hands as they wandered to rest upon the fly of his breeches. In the end, he had fallen asleep well into the wee hours, finally distracting himself with thoughts of his many bloody battles in the Revolution and a glimpse he'd had once of his grandmother's corns.

Resigned now to further forced distractions, Crane pasted a pleasant expression on his face and went out to greet their guests. His eyes were drawn inexorably to the lady of his thoughts, who was busy regaling Jenny and Joe with their run-in with the unknown creature in the Conservatory. Abbie paused briefly in her tale, meeting Crane's eyes before clearing her throat softly and continuing. Crane's eyes sparkled in commiseration; she had a similar effect on him these days. In the kitchen, Joe was already mixing up some pancake batter while the girls set the table in the dining room. The Mills women were not known for their culinary skills, and after greeting the new arrivals, Crane retrieved a rasher of bacon from the refrigerator to contribute to the meal.

"Sorry, man," muttered Joe to Crane as the former turned on the burner beneath the griddle.

"For what?" Crane asked distractedly, filling the coffee pot with water.

Joe was quiet a moment until Crane stopped to look at him.

"Jenny told me about you and Abbie."

Crane's forced his face to go blank, though his thoughts were reeling.

 _Of course Abbie had told her sister what had transpired in the pantry. Of course Jenny had told Joe. Why would she not?_

Still, Crane couldn't help his embarrassment that everyone seemed to be in on what Crane had thought to be a very private matter, which it certainly would have been back in his day.

"I'm sure we put a damper on things," Joe continued.

Guilt made Crane's earlier thoughts of them as interlopers give way to his innate good manners.

"Well, no matter," Crane said with what he hoped was casual nonchalance. "I have endeavored to place blame upon the snowstorm. Naturally, you and Miss Jenny should be here where it's warm."

Joe smirked. "I'll make sure you guys get some private time though. I got your back."

He punched a surprised Crane sympathetically and somewhat hard in the bicep, then poured out a brace of pancakes on the sizzling griddle.

As he absently spooned coffee into the filter, Crane couldn't even summon a _thank-you_.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

While Jenny and Joe cleaned the kitchen, Crane worked to light a fire in the fireplace. Abbie settled on the couch with her second cup of herbal tea, admiring the grace with which Crane did most everything.

"We got our snow day," she said wryly.

Crane turned from poking the logs into place, catching her smiling eyes over the rim of her coffee mug.

"'The best laid plans of mice and men,'" he recited, his own tone laced with irony.

As the fire came to life, Crane joined her on the couch, sitting a safe, respectable distance apart. Abbie was having none of that. She scooted closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder, much as she had done in the carriage. Crane stiffened at first, glancing nervously toward the kitchen, where Jenny and Joe were playfully bickering over the best method of loading a dishwasher. Abbie reached up and turned Crane's face toward her again.

"Hey," she said softly, when his blue gaze once again had her full attention, "they both know."

"Yes," he said, "a situation with which I am extremely…uncomfortable."

Abbie chuckled. "I'm pretty sure Jenny wants this as much as I do. And I thought I saw Joe giving you the ' _atta boy_ man punch in the arm."

Crane smiled a little. "Apparently, he's _got my back,_ as well, as it were. But you must remember, in my time, a stolen kiss could mean the ruination of a young woman, and could entrap a man in a marriage not of his choosing. In _my_ time—"

"Crane," she interrupted, "Look around you. This _is_ your time now."

A shadow crossed his features, and she was sorry she put it there. She knew he still longed for the eighteenth century, still missed the mores of the distant past. She shifted her body toward him fully, her legs tucked beneath her. She took his large hand in hers, laced their fingers together, light and dark, and held their joined hands up for him to observe.

"In your time," she said, " _we_ would have been unable to be together at all, at least not in polite society. As a woman, I wouldn't have been able to be an officer of the law, and would have been more likely to be your servant than your lover, though from the history books and DNA samplings, that happened more than you might have thought."

Crane certainly agreed that was true, but he had to clarify one point. His expression grew earnest, and he grasped both her hands in his.

"I did _not_ own slaves, Lieutenant. Indeed, as I once told you, I was strongly in favor of abolishing the whole business—"

"I know, I know. That's not really my point, though, don't you see?"

His face relaxed, and he brought her left hand to his mouth. "Don't get me wrong; there are many things in this time that I quite admire. I only ask your patience in allowing me to adapt to your modern conventions of courting. It may take me some time to become comfortable with these public displays."

Abbie smiled, then brought his hand to _her_ lips. He felt a jolt of desire when her tongue briefly touched the taut skin of his knuckle. His eyes widened, and he very nearly pounced upon her like an animal, mores of both eras be damned. Her eyes were certainly inviting him to act on these feelings, but the insistent rattling of a box awakened them both to the shared reality that when he did finally make her his, neither of them wanted any witnesses.

"Hey, Crane," Jenny was saying, "you ever play _Monopoly_?"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 _ **Two hours later…**_

Crane sat at the head of the dining table, play money stacked around him like Croesus, property deeds in neat rows to his right, matching places on the game board red with small, plastic hotels. Much to the other players' consternation, Crane had taken to the game like a duck to water—a very greedy duck.

"I can't help thinking Washington and Jefferson are turning over in their graves at what you've become," said Abbie in disgust, forking over her rent. She was only a few dollars away from destitution. The others were in similar straits, each dreading their turn, and how much Citizen Crane would be charging them when they invariably landed on one of his properties.

"You would be quite right about Jefferson, although I think General Washington would have highly approved of my capitalist ways…that's five-hundred dollars, Miss Jenny."

"And I'm out," she said, nearly slapping the orange bill on the table before the monopolist.

"Terribly sorry," Crane replied gleefully. "Master Corbin, I believe it's your turn."

Soon Joe too was beaten, leaving Abbie and her final turn, in which she had to mortgage her only property to pay Crane when she landed on Boardwalk and its waiting hotel.

"I quit," she said.

Crane's eyebrows shot up. " _I quit_? I don't believe I've ever heard you utter those two words together before."

She tossed Crane her remaining twenty dollars. "Here, take it. Take it all, you miser. This is a side of you I never want to see again."

Crane looked genuinely affronted. "I believe the name of this game is _Monopoly_ , Lieutenant. I have effectively followed both the spirit and the letter of the game, and now you are all put out with me?"

"Maybe because I had a landlord like you once, who was very much against rent control," said Abbie, pushing back from the table.

"Here," said Jenny, tossing Crane the box. "Winner puts the game away."

"That hardly seems fair," the winner proclaimed. "You are all sore losers—isn't that what they call it in this time?"

There was much muttering and mumbling as the others abandoned the game, leaving Crane to count his money alone, whistling happily under his breath an old song from the Revolution.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After lunch, a walk outside seemed in order, given that the snow had momentarily stopped, and the foursome were beginning to feel the effects of cabin fever. They bundled up, frolicking like children in the deep snow, Crane at a great advantage with his long legs and high Hessians.

It was Abbie who threw the first snowball—right in Crane's _Monopoly_ winning face.

"How's that for a sore loser?" she proclaimed, laughing as he sputtered and spit out snow.

"This, my dear Lieutenant, is clearly a declaration of war," he said dangerously, though the effect was somehow lost by the snow dripping from his hair and beard. "The Boston Massacre started in a similar fashion, and we all know how that turned out." He reached down and formed an answering volley.

War indeed ensued, becoming quickly a highly competitive battle of the sexes. The women were brutally trounced, unfortunately, especially with the men's larger hands and more efficient snowball forming methods. Snowball fighting ability was clearly so ingrained in men that it knew no age or time, and Crane and Joe worked together as if they had been born to form lethal balls of snow in assembly line fashion.

The women were no slouches, however, firing back salvo after salvo over the snow-laden hedge that separated them, hitting their marks frequently, amid much cursing and answering laughter. But overwhelming firepower eventually vanquished them, and the men, armed with scarves laden with ammo, moved around the hedge for a final attack.

Victory was nigh when the men tackled their women to the ground, shoving icy, wet handfuls down their sweaters, their efforts rewarded with squeals of protest and cries of surrender. Panting, red-faced with cold and laughter, the men rolled over on their backs alongside their defeated women. They looked up at the gray sky, all breathing heavily with exertion. It had been a long time since the two couples had been so carefree and happy.

After a few moments, Jenny sat up and leaned over Joe, and, smiling down at him, warmed his cold lips with her kiss. It was a little awkward for the other two, and Abbie knew that, had they been alone, Crane would be melting the snow with the heat of his kisses. But she didn't want to embarrass him, so she respected his reticence, settling for holding his gloved hand in hers and staring up into the clouds. Crane squeezed back in understanding and gratitude, as the snow began falling once more.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The men called their right as winners to use the showers first, promising not to use all the hot water. It was apparent that Jenny couldn't wait her turn, for she soon disappeared into Abbie's bathroom to join Joe. Crane and Abbie stared self-consciously after them, wondering if they would be doing the same had they been alone.

"Nothing against Master Corbin, but I would be remiss as a gentleman if I utilized the facilities before you do," Crane said to Abbie, as she sat shivering beneath a blanket before the fire.

"You won, Crane. Go ahead."

He slicked back his damp hair with a cold hand. Despite his bravado after the snowball war, it went against his nature to seek his own comfort when a lady was clearly suffering. He hesitated, stoking the fire.

He wanted to say that he wished with all his heart that she would join him, but just the thought of saying the words felt too forward; shocking, even. He had never even bathed with his wife. Suddenly, he needed that shower, and he probably should consider making it a cold one.

"It's a different time, remember?" she prompted with a grin. "I'm a modern woman. I can take it."

He shook his head at her, but he was smiling too. "Very well, then. In my quest to modernize, I shall endeavor to assume a baser mentality to suit the day. But I warn you, I'll not enjoy a moment of it."

"Go already!"

Abbie waited until she heard the shower running in his bathroom. Then, heart thumping, she threw off her blanket and followed.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

As the hot water sluiced down Crane's body, even the thought of Abbie would not allow him to turn the water colder. He was chilled to the bone after their outing, and the heat felt heavenly. He closed his eyes just for a moment to enjoy it, despite his promise to Abbie, so when he heard the turn of the doorknob he knew he had not imagined it.

He opened his eyes and looked through the steamy glass of the shower door, his heart giving a great lurch when he saw her standing there, looking back at him. He stood paralyzed as he watched her look at him, sizing him up from head to foot. Slowly, she begin to disrobe, revealing lean curves beneath the bulky green sweater and jeans. Her eyes never leaving his, she reached round and released her bra, but he could stop his gaze from dropping immediately to the two most perfect breasts he had ever seen. He swallowed, his body hardening in response.

She stepped quickly out of her panties, all thoughts of seduction gone in her hurry to join him. He pushed open the shower door for her, blocking the spray for a moment with his body. She brushed past him in the close confines—her skin tingling with the contact—to stand beneath the hot spray.

"Mind if I share?" she asked belatedly.

And then she was in his arms. His kiss was deep and sweet, his body pushing hers against the tiled wall, firm and wet and warm. His strong arms lifted her a little and pinned her before him, his hands sliding over her naked curves, cupping her, brushing his thumbs over tight buds. She moaned into his mouth.

Her hands were no less busy, and he felt them ardently grasp his buttocks, pulling him more tightly against where she desired him most. His heart was beating so fast that for a moment Crane thought he might black out. He lifted his head from her neck for a breath, only to find she was reaching blindly for the soap on the shelf. She moved then to slide down his body—his turn to groan—until her feet touched the floor once more.

She met his passion-glazed eyes, her own full of sensual mischief. Crane looked down to see her methodically lathering her hands, before dropping the soap to the floor where it landed with a thud. Watching his every reaction, she lowered her soapy hands and encircled him.

"Sweet Jesus," he hissed, his hands gripping her abdomen almost painfully. But she continued to slide up and down his full length, making him come alive in her hands. She increased the pressure, and he felt his legs go weak.

"Stop," he pleaded, for he would soon embarrass himself if she didn't cease this exquisite torture. "Abbie…please."

He reached down and caught both her wrists, pressing them against the wall above her. He kissed her almost brutally, but she reveled in it, kissing him back with equal fervor. He released her mouth after a few heady moments, kissing his way down her wet skin, lingering in the valley between her breasts. The moment he released her wrists and knelt before her, her hands fell to his slick hair, holding him while he took one dark tip into his mouth.

When his hand gently tweaked the other breast, a hoarse sob escaped from her throat. His mouth went lower, gliding over her flat belly, pausing to dip his tongue into her navel before he moved lower still to find the heated core of her. He teased her with his mouth and hands until she thought she would go crazy, but then he slipped one long finger inside, and crazy didn't quite cover it. It had been so long for Abbie that in no time at all she was panting and shaking with her impending release. He increased the pressure of his fingers, employed his thumb until she shuddered and cried out as softly as she could manage. He stood and held her trembling body to his, kissing the top of her head, caressing her glorious derriere as the water turned from hot to lukewarm.

He turned the water off before it ran cold, warming her in his arms until she stopped shaking. He could hardly believe what he had done; what _she_ had done to him as well. He was still unbearably aroused, but laughter and the sound of the television in the next room reminded him that the things he wanted to do with Abbie would require a level of privacy that they currently did not have.

"Are you quite all right?" he whispered against her wet curls.

He felt her speechless nod, then he noted the goose bumps rising upon the arms that enfolded him.

"Let's get you out of here," he said gently.

He pushed open the shower door and grabbed his blue terrycloth bathrobe, helping her slip on the arms before tying the sash lovingly around her. The sleeves hung charmingly to the floor, the bottom hem of the garment resting on her feet. He felt suddenly protective of her, and madly, deeply in love.

Abbie felt as limp as a rag doll, and so she let him take care of her, let him kiss her sweetly on her swollen lips. He took a towel off the rack for himself, wrapping it about his waist, tucking one end under to hold it precariously in place. Abbie seemed to come back to herself at the sight of his sexy torso, and she reached out to touch his lightly furred chest, stopping his movements as he rubbed his hair with another towel.

"Hey," she began. "That was…"

"Incredible? Awe-inspiring? Tremendous?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Someone is awfully confident."

He blushed. "I was talking about from my own perspective, Mademoiselle."

She frowned. "But _you_ didn't…"

He took hold of either lapel of her borrowed robe.

"No, nor shall I. Not until we are completely alone, or—" and he grinned seductively, "unless we have hot water to spare."

Her hand fell lower, hovering at the edge of his towel. "It's not really fair for you though, is it? I could—"

He stilled her wandering hand. "I'm certain you _could_ , Lieutenant, but right now we must go and entertain our guests. It might be better if you gave me a little breathing room first, however," he finished meaningfully.

"You're kicking me out?"

He bent and kissed her damp nose. "Indeed. For my own sanity, mind you. Believe me, I want nothing more than to finish what _you_ started." He feigned effrontery. "Imagine, the shock at the sight of my old colleague, disrobing in my bathroom in a blatant attempt at seduction. I admit I was rather traumatized, and you very nearly unmanned me."

She smiled sheepishly. "I figured you might be a bit surprised." She sidled closer. "But you sure recovered fast enough." She went up on tiptoe and kissed his lips.

"My sweet Lieutenant, I fear I shall never recover from this fever you have given me." He held her hands to his bare chest, his expression growing serious. She could actually feel his heartbeat accelerate, and she began to feel a little lightheaded at the emotion she saw in his face.

"I love you," he told her simply. "More than I could adequately express in words."

She felt the tears prick at her eyes, her emotion at his words surprising her. Her throat became tight, her own pulse pounded in her ears.

"Do you feel the same for me?" he prompted, and she could clearly hear the anxiety in his voice as he awaited her answer.

It was at that precise moment that the lights went out.

 **A/N: Cliffhanger! Thanks so much for reading another chapter.**

 **I know Crane and Abbie's intimacy might seem to be happening fast, but there are a few reasons for that. For one, many of us have been waiting three years for them to get together, and since I'm inspired to continue this story, I'll admit to writing what I wish we could see on the show. It's well past time, if you ask me. Another reason is, I'm not sure yet whether I'll write more for this fandom, and I want to be sure to cover all my bases, lol. The shower scene in particular is a little shout out to my friends who have followed me from my** _ **Mentalist**_ **stories, where they might recall my first long fic for that fandom had a similar shower scene between Jane and Lisbon. So, cheers to you!**

 **One more chapter to follow in this little fic. I admit I am addicted to reviews, and would love to know what you think. See you back here soon!**


	5. The Very Long Conclusion and Epilogue

**A/N: Thank you to all who have reviewed this story. I have felt so welcome here! This is the final chapter of this fic, and I hope I end it to your satisfaction. It is rated T/M again, but I have tried to err on the side of tasteful romance rather than smut. Enjoy ;)**

 **Chapter 5: Conclusion and Epilogue**

Groans from the living room signified the power outage wasn't just confined to Crane's bathroom. The windowless room was plunged into darkness, however, and Crane and Abbie stumbled to the door to step out into Crane's bedroom. Weak daylight poured through the half-open blinds, dim because of the howling snowstorm outside.

"I'll uh, just put on some trousers," said Crane with an ironic smirk.

Abbie could only nod, her heart still racing at the revelation Crane had just shared with her, at the words she had been on the verge of repeating herself.

"Abbie?" Jenny called.

She tightened the sash of Crane's robe, and turned to leave, but Crane caught her hand.

"We shall finish this soon, you and I," he promised her.

She smiled a little, allowing herself a moment to take in the beauty of him: drops of water running in tiny rivulets down his lightly furred chest, disappearing tantalizingly into the low-slung towel; his hair and beard damp and slick, blue eyes glittering with banked passion. She squeezed his hand.

"Yes, we will," she managed, and left him hungrily staring after her as she left the room.

When Jenny saw her in Crane's oversized blue robe, she grinned from ear to ear. Abbie felt her face grow hot, and avoided her sister's knowing gaze.

"Power looks to be out on the whole block," Joe was saying from the window, oblivious to Abbie's situation. Streetlights that had come on in the gloom were all dark now. "That wind picked up awhile ago, and combined with the heavy snow…"

"Yeah," said Abbie. "I'll bet there are some power lines down. We should call the electric company to report our outage."

"I'll do it," offered Joe. "Hey, where's Crane?"

"Getting dressed," replied Abbie.

Joe suddenly took in Abbie's masculine attire and dripping hair, glanced at Jenny for confirmation. His girlfriend nodded, the pleased grin never leaving her face.

"Shut up, both of you," said Abbie.

"We haven't said a word," said Jenny, innocently holding up her palms.

"I take it we have lost power," said Crane, entering as if on cue. His hair had been hastily combed, and he now wore pants, his shirt inside out, and no socks. Joe shared Jenny's knowing grin.

"Yeah. I was about to call the utility company. It's gonna get cold in here pretty quick."

The house was all electric, so their only source of heat now would be the fireplace.

Abbie picked up her phone from the coffee table, and began scrolling through her contact list. "I know someone with the utility company. Maybe they have some inside information."

"Oh, Jimmy, who used to live down the street?" said Jenny.

"Yeah."

Abbie found his name and called the man's cell number. After a brief conversation, Abbie ended the call with a frown.

"Several power lines are down," she confirmed their earlier theory. "Jimmy says it may be tomorrow afternoon before power's restored. Maybe even the day after that."

"Never fear," replied Crane confidently. "We have plenty of firewood to last us for at least that long. And the pantry is full—I can personally attest to that." His eyes wandered briefly to Abbie's, who pursed her lips in remembrance. "We can easily devise a way to hang a pot over the fire," he continued. "We can cook, heat water, find warmth and light—"

Jenny and Joe looked at each other, then at Crane. In disbelief.

"What has America come to," said Crane in exasperation, "when you cannot contemplate the loss of your creature comforts for a few days? Why, in my time, the hearth was the center of the home. It was the very key to surviving the winter and providing succor and sustenance throughout the year."

"It isn't that. I have survived with much less. But we would _all_ have to sleep in the living room," said Jenny in dismay. " _Together_. Sorry, sis, but I'm not into that much togetherness."

"It wouldn't be for long," said Abbie, who had received plenty of survival training herself, in much worse conditions than this.

Jenny took out her phone. "I'm calling that inn in Irvington before everyone else gets the same idea. All that town's power lines are underground."

"Master Corbin?" said Crane, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

Joe shrugged. "Hey, I'm game. But whatever Jenny wants…"

Crane shook his head. "You've all gone soft. I can't for the life of me understand how this country has survived this long with such a lack of fortitude." He squatted down and began poking at the fire in frustration. Abbie came to stand beside him.

" _I'm_ not going anywhere," she said softly.

He looked up from his chore, caught her meaning, and abruptly his antipathy melted away. He had a vision of the two of them, wrapped in blankets before the fire, naked and warm in each other's arms.

"You're not?"

"No. It'll be fun. We'll roast wienies, pop popcorn. I'll even teach you how to make s'mores."

Crane's voice dropped so that only she could hear. "I've no idea what that is, Lieutenant, but it sounds quite…tempting."

"Oh, it is," she whispered, daring to put a small hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, shall I reserve one room or two?" interrupted Jenny, her hand over her phone's receiver.

"One," said Crane and Abbie together.

Jenny's grin returned, and she finished making their reservations.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Now… you slide it in, and everything gets all hot and melty…"

Crane watched wide-eyed as Abbie constructed the roasted marshmallow and chocolate treat. She put the s'more on a plate and handed it to him, anxious to watch him take his first bite of a recent American tradition.

He looked skeptically at the little graham cracker sandwich, but he gamely brought it to his mouth and took an awkward bite.

"Hmmm," he intoned rapturously, as the flavors melded together.

"Right? What'd I tell ya?"

He held the s'more out to her lips, and she put her hands on his to steady the messy indulgence before opening her mouth for a bite. For some reason, it tasted especially good to her too, and she found he made her feel like this was her own first time trying it. She often felt that way with him when he discovered something new in the present day; she had the wonderful blessing of experiencing it anew through his eyes, and sometimes through his taste buds.

She saw how he was watching her lips as she chewed, and suddenly it became uncomfortably warm so close to the fire flickering in his eyes. Abbie had the insanely romantic thought that she and Crane could create enough electricity between them to light the whole world, especially when he bent to lick the marshmallow that remained on the corner of her mouth.

"Delicious," he whispered.

They chewed in silent awareness as they sat back on the pillows and blankets spread before the fire.

"Like something out of _Arabian Nights_ ," Crane had said when they'd finished the arrangement. The candles added another element of the exotic, transporting the room into a glowing paradise redolent of vanilla and cinnamon.

"Would you like another?" Abbie asked, when the first s'more had disappeared.

"Taste of you?" he replied, turning toward her. "Most definitely."

Before she knew it, Crane's lank body was covering hers on the pillows, his warm hands slipping beneath her sweater and cupping her breasts. His lips joined with hers, moving over them with a tempered passion that had Abbie impatiently deepening the kiss, opening her mouth to him and pulling him closer, fiddling with the lacings of his brown cotton shirt.

They were alone at last, remembrance of their recent encounter in the shower still very heavy on their minds, still humming within their blood. He had some difficulty removing her tight jeans, and she laughed with nervous excitement, bucking up her hips to help him, while he cursed an uncharacteristic blue streak at the styles of the twenty-first century.

"It used to be…that if one wanted…a passionate…assignation with his lady, he simply lifted her skirts."

"Crane!" she said, genuinely shocked at his confession.

He tossed her offending denim garment into the darkest corner of the room, before turning to take in what his efforts had revealed: smooth, muscular legs the color of rich coffee, gently curved hips within a swatch of black satin; a well-defined stomach (of which Abbie was secretly very proud), and high, firm breasts still covered by her matching black bra.

"I remember the first time I saw you thus," he was saying, while his hands ghosted tantalizingly over her curves. "We were lying in an Indian shaman's home, waiting for scorpions to bite us. I was hard-pressed to avert my eyes."

She shuttered. Not exactly the most romantic of memories, but she recalled how she too had forced herself not to look at the danger of his pale chest, at his own incredible abs, made even more attractive since she knew it had come from hard work and military training rather than hours in a gym. She reached out and touched him there now, felt him tremble and draw in a sharp breath.

"It seems like a million years ago," she said shakily, when his hands resumed their travels with a tantalizing reverence.

"You have no concept of time, my love—take it from one who knows first-hand, for it seems like merely yesterday to me."

"This from a very old man of what-three-hundred years?"

He chuckled, bending to kiss the valley between her breasts, his beard teasing her, his lips burning a path to her nipples.

"Two-hundred seventy, to be exact. But you will soon find, Miss Mills, that I retain the vigor of one less than half my age."

She laughed at his joke, her heart swelling with love for this man, whose humor and intelligence were his main attractions for her—not that his face and body didn't add a little something to that.

"Promises promises," she taunted, earning her a gentle nip through her bra. She gasped and squirmed in exquisite agitation. Her hands landed in his soft hair, holding him tightly against her. She felt his answering grin of triumph, and paid equal homage to her other breast.

Suddenly impatient himself, Crane rose abruptly to pull his shirt over his head, and it soon joined her jeans on the floor. She watched, her chest rising and falling rapidly, as he unfastened his breeches, revealing the strange, long linen underwear from his time— _smalls_ , he'd once called them in embarrassment when she'd brought his laundry to his room. Seeing him in them now made her catch her breath, especially when he unbuttoned the soft fabric and pulled it down over lean hips.

He was no longer shy or uncertain—the man had no need to be, she acknowledged, as his impressive length pressed eagerly against her inner thigh. He reached behind her and released her breasts, which he then ravaged thoroughly with mouth and hands until she could no longer form coherent thoughts. Soft moans and kittenish cries vibrated in her throat, and his seeking fingers slipped beneath her panties, playing her like a tightly strung violin.

"Oh, God," she muttered. "Crane…please."

"Ichabod," he murmured against her swollen mouth. "I long to hear my name upon your lips…please, Abbie."

She opened her eyes, somewhat shyly gazing into roiling pools of sapphire blue.

"Ichabod," she said, the Biblical moniker sounding strange to her ears. The way he kissed her then made her wish she had used his first name much sooner, and she vowed that, in moments of intimacy at least, she would say it as often as possible.

Soon she didn't even remember her _own_ name as he brought her to the edge of overwhelming pleasure, dispensing with her panties before almost forcefully bending her knees, creating a cradle for his burgeoning arousal. His hands went to her cheeks, and she opened dazed brown eyes.

"You never answered…my question," he said, over breaths that came heavy and fast.

"Wha—What?"

Before they took this past the point of no return, he had to know her true feelings. He didn't want either of them to have regrets, to feel empty inside later.

"Do you love me?"

The world stilled in that moment, and a serenity washed over Abbie that she hadn't felt since she'd returned from the Catacombs. Or maybe ever. She smiled tenderly, and the words now came easily.

"Yes. With all my heart and soul."

"As you have mine," he said, and found her lips again.

He moved a fraction forward, joining her body with his at last. He lifted his head to watch her reaction in the firelight, found her looking up at him, her eyes twin mirrors of his own love and desire. This spurred him onward, as did the way her hips rose determinedly to meet him. They began the timeless dance—their movements in perfect sync- a rise and a fall, an advance and a retreat, hearts racing, breaths ragged and fast.

But it was more than a mating of bodies with them; the soul of which she'd spoken had been drawn to his over vast oceans of time, through the tides of destruction and apocalypse, beyond evil and fear and loss. This was the culmination of all they had suffered and endured.

This was their reward.

For Crane's part, he had thought he had known love before with Katrina, and perhaps it had been. And while he had also known extreme ecstasy with his wife, never had he felt the completeness he was feeling now with Abbie, a meeting of the mind and spirit, where he finally understood the profoundness of being a part of someone else. All the world was reduced to the sound of each breath, each heartbeat, the feeling that he had truly found his other half, that he would never be whole again without her.

Without breaking their connection, Abbie used her surprising strength to roll him to his back, slowing the tempo of their dance. He held her hands to steady her as she balanced upon him, rolling her hips as she lifted up, then settled down again, sheathing him to the hilt. Each movement wrung a gasp, then a moan from both of them. He watched through half-lowered lids the way her body undulated, her breasts high and firm and perfect as he allowed her to take the lead. He had never seen anything so erotic, so beautiful, but he could not bear it for long, this slow, sweet torment. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dampened his chest as he forced himself to keep to the even rhythm she had set.

"Faster," he prompted, when he could take no more. "Please, Abbie…you're driving me mad."

But by then she was trembling and panting with her impending release, and he moved his hands from hers to settle on her hips, wresting control from her weakening frame. He sat up, so that her breasts brushed his chest, his mouth seeking hers in a heady kiss before he began thrusting wildly into her. The sudden increase in friction brought her over the edge, and she cried out in passion, her muscles convulsing around him, her nails digging into his shoulders. This was more than enough to send him with her, and he shouted her name as waves of pleasure washed over him, and he poured himself into her.

Still joined, he fell back against the pillows, bringing her with him to rest upon his heaving chest. They lay in that manner for some time, lacking the power of speech, trembling and shaking as residual tremors occasionally suffused them. He must have dozed for a moment, for when she shifted slightly against him, Crane awoke with startle to find her looking at him, a warm, satisfied smile gracing her sensual lips.

"Hello there," she said, kissing his chest.

He reached up to touch her hair, absently wrapping a curl around his finger.

"Hello," he replied sheepishly. "I apologize for drifting off. It wasn't your company, believe me."

"I understand. Some things never change, I suppose."

One dark eyebrow shot up at her twinkling eyes. "Meaning?"

She shrugged, her own fingers toying with his chest hair. "Good sex makes even the strongest men weak."

He thought this over. "Quite," he agreed, lips quirking. "But I have found women to have remained unchanged over time, at least in one respect."

"Oh?" She couldn't wait to hear this.

"Their desire to point out man's weaknesses."

She laughed, her voice sexy and throaty, reminding Crane of the finest scotch whiskey. "But in this case, I was giving you a compliment."

"Aw, yes. You did call it _good_."

She crawled up his chest further, her hair forming a curtain around them. "More than good, Ichabod. It was…transcendent."

He kissed her, the old-fashioned term echoing pleasantly in his ears. He could not have characterized it better himself.

She settled now against his side, her arm draped over his torso, head pillowed on his shoulder. He laced his fingers with hers, their hands resting on his hard belly.

"We must talk, Abbie, in all seriousness, about what has transpired between us."

"You're not about to propose to me, are you?" she teased. When he was suspiciously silent, she sat up to look at his expression.

"No way," she said. "Crane—"

"I'm certain that under the circumstances we could obtain a special license."

"Crane."

"Or I hear we could elope, perhaps to Atlantic City, or to that strange city I've heard of in Nevada."

"Crane."

"Yes, my love? I know I have mucked up my proposal brilliantly, but you must know how much that I love you, and I apologize profusely for anticipating our wedding vows. Not, of course, for the pleasure we shared-"

"Crane!" she nearly shouted, desperately covering his mouth to get him to stop talking.

"Hmph?" he said against her hand.

"Are you going to shut up for a second and listen to me?"

"Um-hm," he hummed in agreement. She released his mouth.

"Good. Now. It's not that I am saying no to marrying you, exactly, it's just that, well—a couple doesn't _have_ to get married anymore once they've slept together. You don't need to feel you've somehow ruined me, or my reputation. We don't have to run off to Gretna Greene or something."

His eyebrows shot up at this.

"What? I've read _Pride and Prejudice_. We're both consenting adults. I don't need the protection of a marriage license to be able to openly show my love for you."

"I'm aware of that," he said quietly, and she regretted the tinge of hurt in his voice. "I can see that Miss Jenny and Master Corbin, for example, are clearly— _together,_ but they have yet to come before the altar."

Abbie nodded. "Exactly. And they clearly love each other, and are very happy."

He sat up against the pillows, and, suddenly cold, he pulled the blankets up around them.

"I've hurt your feelings," she said.

"No. Not really. It's just that—I-I didn't stop myself in time. There might be a child…"

Understanding dawned, and she kissed his cheek, then took his hand and brought it to her heart. "It's highly unlikely."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"In all your attempts to catch up in your study of modern times, you've never run across mention of birth control?"

He blushed, mortified to be discussing this subject with a lady. "French letters were in use even in my day, as well as other unmentionable things ladies attempted, not to mention the ever popular, _coitus interruptus_. We however, did not utilize any of those methods, as you well know."

"How about the pill? You heard of the birth control pill?"

He looked genuinely surprised. "There is a pill?"

"Yes. A woman takes it daily to prevent pregnancy. It stops a woman from ovulating." She paused, frowning at his confused expression. "You do know where babies come from, don't you, Crane?"

"Of course. People have understood the process for centuries," he replied haughtily.

"But you know about a woman's physiology? What actually happens in the body at conception?"

"I admit we were lacking in the knowledge that your century now takes for granted, but I have since read a bit of the work of the doctors, Masters and Johnson."

She laughed. "Well, if you wanted to know the basics, I guess you were in the right place."

"Unfortunately, I must have stopped reading before a chapter on prevention, a topic which I admit we should have discussed before we…" He gestured inanely.

"The point is, I'm on the pill," she said, trying not to smile. "Don't worry about an unplanned child."

She settled again at his side, and she let him absorb their conversation, as he was wont to do with intriguing new information.

"That is not the only reason I want to marry you," he said softly, after some time had passed.

Abbie felt her heart lift, where it seemed to hover lightly in her breast.

"I know," she said. "But this is so new, so sudden. At least, the physical relationship between us is. I would like the chance to get to know you better on this level, before we skip to the next."

"You said earlier you weren't saying no, however."

He felt her nod against his side. "I'm not saying no. I'm saying…not yet."

He bent his head to kiss her on the temple. "I am grateful to hear that. But know this, Miss Grace Abigail Mills. The offer stands open indefinitely. You need only say the word."

She smiled. "I'll keep that in mind." Her hand began to slide lower down his chest beneath the covers to caress his taut abdomen, then lower still, following the trail of downy hair to the apex of his thighs. When she felt him jump in her hand, she slipped her head beneath the covers as well.

"I believe, Lieutenant, Dr. Masters discussed a certain refractory period that a man must—oh…well now—oh, God—Abbie." He said her name upon a hiss of pleasure.

And for the first time in Ichabod Crane's life, he totally threw aside the sound results of scientific research.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

In only their robes, or sometimes nothing at all, they dined on the contents of the warming fridge—cold cut sandwiches, bowls of cereal to use the milk, orange juice and cheese omelets. The freezer goods they put in an ice chest and set on the porch to let nature keep them frozen. Once, they even ventured out and engaged in competitive snowman construction. Crane conceded her victory when she placed upon the head of her snowman an old rag mop, and, after tying it in a queue at its neck, proclaimed him to be George Washington. He had to admit the likeness was extraordinary.

Between eating, playing, and arguing politics; chess games and long philosophical discussions of America then and now, they made love, each time more profound than the last. He was learning her body like one of his ancient tomes, honing instinctively on the most important passages: what made her tremble and cry out the most, what drew out her pleasure until she came to a shuddering climax. Abbie was no slouch in that department herself, for Crane was brought frequently to mind-numbing pleasures he had never known. She did things to him not even his wife had done, things he was quite certain he had never even heard of before.

When he asked where she had come by such miraculous knowledge, she grinned mysteriously and confessed: "I used to read _Cosmopolitan_ cover-to-cover." She took another bite of Cocoa Puffs. "But what about you? For such an old man, you seem to know your way around a woman's body."

Ignoring her little jab at his age, he chose instead to answer her question. "When I was a student at Oxford, a classmate slipped me an untranslated copy of _The Kama Sutra_. This is how I taught myself Sanskrit." His eyes sparkled with mischievous humor.

She laughed heartily. "Don't tell me you only learned so you could read the articles."

He didn't quite get the pop culture reference, but he understood her meaning clearly enough. He took her bowl of cereal from her hands and set it behind them on the coffee table, then pulled them both down to the pillows in their nest before the fire.

"Aw, my dear Abigail," he said, in what she had come to think of as his naughty professor voice, "I definitely studied the pictures with equal fervor."

Parting her robe, Crane dutifully proceeded to demonstrate what he termed "The Conch Shell and the Crab." For her edification, of course.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 **Epilogue**

They were awakened early on the third day by the sudden sound of the television, which Jenny and Joe had left on, and lamplight streaming over them from a side table. Curled up in each other's arms, they moaned in unison—this time for a completely unpleasurable reason. Mere seconds later, her cell phone rang. She wished then that she hadn't thought to charge the damn thing using the car battery.

"What?" she said, without looking at the caller ID.

"It's just me, geeze," said Jenny from the other end.

Crane was fumbling for the TV remote, which he found and promptly clicked the off button. Turning back to Abbie, he lifted her hair and kissed the back of her neck while she continued to talk to her sister.

"Sorry to interrupt, but just checking if your lights are back on."

"Why? Where-where are you?" When Crane employed his tongue on her spine, she shivered and batted him away in halfhearted annoyance.

"We just got into Sleepy Hollow and noticed the lights were on at the café."

"Oh? It's back on here, too."

"Cool. Well, we're heading back to the trailer to check on it. The roads seem to be getting better too. I bet you'll have to go back in to work today."

Abbie sighed, both from the feel of Crane's hands on her breasts as well as the resignation that duty would soon be calling.

"Yeah, you're probably right. Thanks."

"So, how are you and Crane at _roughing it_?" Jenny laced the question with obvious sexual innuendo.

"Jenny," she warned.

Crane, who had returned to kissing her neck, could hear every word.

"We are getting on quite well, thank you, Miss Jenny," he replied toward the phone, and he could hear Jenny chuckling on the other end.

"I had no doubts about you two, Crane," Jenny said. "None at all."

"Would you guys like to talk without your middle man?" asked Abbie in annoyance.

"Nah, that's okay. I think we all understand each other," said her sister.

"Well, thanks for the wake-up call, but you're right; I should probably get up and—"

"It's ten o'clock, sis. You're still in bed? How very un-Abbie-like of you. Crane must be keeping you awake all night. You know, with all that s'more making and such."

"Good-bye, Jenny."

"Hey, wait. This weekend is Valentine's Day, so I'll be by to pick up that black dress of yours."

"Oh, right. Yeah. I guess I still owe you for breaking us out of the pantry."

"Damn right you do. And tell Crane my Spring classes start in April, so he'd better brush up on his Latin."

Embracing Abbie now from behind, he set his chin upon her shoulder and spoke directly into the phone.

"Ipsa scientia potestas est,"he told her. "Consult a dictionary."

She laughed. "I'll do that. Bye you two."

They disconnected and Abbie took a moment to lean back against Crane's chest, reveling in his strength, as well as the symbolic manifestation of having him at her back.

"'Knowledge is power'?" she suggested the translation. She laughed at his irony. "Have I ever told you that your sense of humor is one of the things I love most about you?"

"No, you have not."

"Well, consider yourself told."

"Hmm. Likewise, Lieutenant. And may I say, when we first met, in a world filled with unfamiliar words and deeds, I had no trouble at all understanding your sarcasm. It went a long way toward making me feel right at home."

"I'm not sure how I should take that. Didn't Shakespeare say 'sarcasm is the lowest form of wit'?"

"No, I believe it was Oscar Wilde. But he never met you, my dear, for you have turned the practice into an art form."

"Gee, thanks."

"See?" He grinned and kissed her cheek.

They were quiet a moment, each thinking with regret that their time away from the rest of the world was about to end. It had been a blessing: two days without thinking about death or Pandora or other supernatural entities. Two days of love and laughter and fun.

"I want to thank you," she said at length.

"For the Conch Shell and Crab or for The Splitting Bamboo? For there at least sixty-one more…"

She rolled her eyes. "I've created a monster, and in our lives, that is saying a lot. No, Romeo, I mean for distracting me in the best possible way these past few days."

"Is that not what I just said?"

She turned in his arms so he could see that she was serious. His expression turned immediately contrite. "Go on," he amended.

"Until now, I had nearly forgotten my time in the Catacombs. The darkness doesn't scare me anymore. I've been sleeping like a baby. You saved me once again, Ichabod. I—I have no words to thank you."

He was surprised to see the tears gathering in her eyes, and he soothed her emotions with a tender kiss.

"Have you not found that we need no words between us? It has always been there—this love that we share—but we were never in a position to admit it. Our love binds us together. It sets us free. What you feel, I feel. What you desire, I desire. If you are in peril, so it goes for me. We no longer need hide it, and you never need to thank me for saving my own life as I did when I saved yours."

She hugged him to her body then, as she let the tears of happiness flow down her cheeks. His arms came round to embrace her, and he closed his eyes, breathing her in like air, loving her with his entire being.

She pulled away at last, and he wiped away her tears with a tender thumb before kissing lips that tasted of her tears.

"Now, what is this about the approach of Saint Valentine's Day?" he said, longing for the good humor to return before a phone call snatched her away.

"Not a day I typically celebrate," she said, and he felt her tense.

"Because you have not had a sweetheart with which to observe it of late, am I correct?"

"Yes. But just because we are together, you don't have to—"

"Pshaw, Miss Mills, I'll have none of that talk. While Saint Valentine's Day began as a three-day Roman ritual, whereby women were whipped to insure their fertility, I respect its evolution to a day to celebrate love, and since you and I are, in fact, in _love,_ I see no good reason—"

Her kiss silenced his monologue, and it quickly evolved into a heated, _unspoken_ conversation. When she released his mouth, his breathing had accelerated, his blue eyes wide and slightly dazed.

"Wow," she said, smiling gently. "I wish I had thought of that sooner. Imagine all the pointless diatribes we both could have avoided."

He grinned sheepishly. "You certainly would have rendered me speechless had you attacked me in such a manner. But—" and he held up a staying finger. "I still have not forgotten what I was about to say. That picnic at the Botanical Gardens was just the beginning of my courtship of you. And, while it didn't exactly go as planned, and we have since managed to jump a few steps, I would still like the opportunity to woo you."

" _Woo_ me?" she said, her dark eyes lit with amusement. She looked down at their naked bodies. "I'm about as wooed as a girl can be, Crane."

"Still, let me take you out for a special dinner that doesn't include the inimitable French Fry. Then, perhaps you can introduce me to modern dancing. I assume young ladies still love to dance, and I was quite the master in my day."

"How modern is _modern_ , Crane? Something tells me the waltz was even after your time." She tried not to laugh when she imagined him engaging in the Whip/Nae Nae.

"Not so. Though during the War, one would most likely see country dances in America. You're saying people still waltz today?"

"Yes."

"And you know how?"

"Sure."

"Well, then. I would very much like to waltz with you, Lieutenant, if you would do me the honor."

"I'm sure _that's_ a sentence you've never said before," she said slyly.

He laughed. "There was certainly an absence of female lieutenants under General Washington's command. So, is your answer yes?"

He held her hand in the courtly manner that never ceased to flatter and impress her. But the kiss he bestowed upon her knuckles, this time she felt to her core.

"Yes," she replied. "I would love that."

"Then it's settled. I must say, I'm looking very much forward to holding you in my arms."

She reached for him again, pulling his body over hers.

"Why don't you start right now?"

Neither of them heard the call that came from Daniel Reynolds.

 **THE END**

 **A/N: So you've convinced me by your warm and wonderful reviews to write more for this fandom. I'm re-watching the series from the beginning, so I know it will inspire me in whatever I write in the future. I remain hopeful also that the show will be renewed, and I'll have at least one more season to stare at these two adorable people. Thanks for reading. I'm open to suggestions for topics of my next story. Drop me a review and tell me what you'd like to see.**

 **PS: You can find me on Twitter, where I am also Donnamour1969. I give story updates, as well as discuss all kinds of things, including politics (a warning, in case that's not your cup of tea). Would love to see you there!**


End file.
